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Buddy comes up to Evans apartment. It's been a few weeks since he's seen his friend. Evans has refused invitations out
and has been taciturn on the phone, clamming up about what he's been doing and how things are. It's Buddy's concern
that there may be a moment of crisis, where the building tension and depression of Evans' situation comes to a head
and there is some disaster. Although Buddy is usually self-involved, he's concerned enough for his friend to make the
trip and see what's really going on.
The building where Evans is renting his room is a few blocks east of downtown, on a strip frequented by the homeless.
It's a down scene. Not really dangerous, but panhandlers are a constant, and there are always dealers and over-the-hill
hookers straggling along. Buddy hops off the street car and looks around in dismay, glancing over his shoulder at the
shady characters all around as he makes his way up to Evans' building.
There is a security door and buzzer, but a grizzled-looking man is stepping out when Buddy arrives, so the young man
slips in without buzzing. He's glad he can avoid speaking to his friend over the little intercom,
since he hadn¡¯t called ahead to let Evans know he was coming. The last few times he called, Evans told him not to come.
I'm busy, he had said each time, but refused to elaborate on what he was busy doing.
Buddy arrives in front of his friend's door and knocks with authority, certain Evans is home. There is no
audible response from within, and Buddy knocks again. After a pause there is the sound of footsteps moving slowly
across the floor.
"Who is it?" The voice from within the apartment is flat and lifeless.
"It's Buddy."
The door opens and there is our man Evans, standing in his undershirt and boxer shorts. He has deep purple circles
under his bloodshot eyes and his thinning face is pallid and unshaven. "Hey man," he says. "Come on in."
"Crap," Buddy says, stepping inside and looking at his friend. "You look sick. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. I'm pretty tired. I worked last night and I didn't go to bed when I got home."
"What time did you sleep?"
"I don't know. Six or six-thirty I think. Here, have a seat." He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and offers
it to Buddy. With the shuffling walk of an old man he pulls the window open and sits heavily down
on the other chair. There is a plastic bag on the table and Evans pulls it toward him, opens it and brings out a pouch
of tobacco and a packet of rolling papers.
Buddy comes over and sits in the chair as Evans starts tugging a wad of loose brown tobacco out of the pouch.
"Rolling now, huh?"
"Yeah. It's cheaper. I spent a lot of money this month."
"On what?"
"That shit." Evans points to the corner of the room. On the floor is a sheet of plastic with several small
canvas boards in different stages of being painted upon. There is an empty coffee can with some tubes of acrylic
colors, a cup with some brushes, and a piece of cardboard covered in blobs of dried paint.
"Hey, hey," Buddy says, getting up and walking over. He squats down and looks at the small images. "When did you
get all this stuff?"
"After we went to see that sculpture show." Evans licks along the edge of the paper and seals up the rolled cigarette.
He puts it to his lips and lights up with a disposable lighter.
"Yeah, I guess that was the last time I saw you. So this is what you've been doing?" Buddy picks up one eight by twelve
inch canvas-covered board and inspects the swaths of color smeared across it. "Just color blends?"
"I'm just sort of figuring it out. I've never really painted before. Not since third grade, anyway."
"Right." Buddy straightens up and walks back over to the table. "You mind rolling me one of those?"
Evans cracks a thin smile. "When was the last time you had a cigarette? Second year?"
"I like how rollies smell. No big thing, right?"
Evans shrugs and begins pulling more of the stringy tobacco from the pouch. Buddy stands watching him.
"I don't mean to sound weird or shitty or anything," Buddy says, "but you really don't look so well. Have you
been eating?"
"Sure. Sandwiches. Peanut butter. Baloney. Cheese slices. That's a couple of food groups, right?"
"That's a couple of imitations of food groups. I don't know. It looks like you're getting really skinny, but
you're getting a gut, too. What's up with that?"
Evans finishes the cigarette and passes it over. "What are you, my fucking doctor?"
"Thanks," Buddy says, taking the thin cigarette. He lights it, checks the cough he feels building in his throat
and exhales. "No, khaf, khaf. Ahem. No man, I'm you're friend. I'm just worried you're not taking care of
yourself."
Evans taps his smoke on the edge of the ashtray. "I'm not worried. I feel pretty good, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I feel like I've got something to concentrate on now, you know? Something to focus on."
"What, painting?" Buddy looks back at the little canvas boards. "Where'd this come from anyway? You never talked
about wanting to paint before."
"I know. I just had some inspiration. That art show really got me thinking. And you know that chick, Carrie? She
gave me some encouragement. Got me thinking maybe this is something I could do."
Buddy cracks a wry grin. "What, for a career or something? You want to be an artist now?"
Evans smiles. "What's so funny, man? Don't get all elitist on me just because you went to art school. You don't
need a degree to be allowed to paint."
"No, no." Buddy takes a drag and crushes out his unfinished cigarette in the tray. "Blah. No, I don't want to
discourage you or anything. Is this how you're going to... you know, deal with things? Paint your problems away?"
Evans sits very still for a moment, taking in the question, digesting it, trying to find a true answer. He can't
find one. He takes a drag, flicks his eyes toward his friend and looks out the window. In a soft voice almost
cracking with emotion and exhaustion, he breathes out: "I can't even remember what my problems are anymore."
The thought crosses Buddy's mind that by coming he may have inadvertently forced the crisis he hoped to prevent. He
smiles, tries to look reassuring. "Painted them away already, huh? Ah, sweet catharsis. Have you got any beer
here? Maybe we should have a beer."
He gets up and looks in Evans' fridge. There is an open carton of milk, a container of mustard and three
slices of bread in a clear plastic bag. He lets the door swing shut and takes a look at Evans. Our man
looks catatonic.
"Come on over here," Buddy says, walking over to the corner of the room with the paintings. "Show me these
things."
Evans gets up and shuffles over, ashtray in one hand and
cigarette in the other, and sits down on the bed near where Buddy is kneeling down.
"Why are you painting them in the corner here?" Buddy asks. "There's no light here."
"I paint at the table," Evans says. "I just bring them over here to dry. I still need somewhere to eat."
"Yeah, you can't eat baloney just anywhere." Buddy holds up a small board. Regular blocky-blobby lines of simple
red and yellow alternate on a black background. "So you're just learning?" At Evans' silence, he continues: "What
did you learn painting this one?"
"That the title is everything," Evans says. He crushes out his cigarette. "Ask me what that one is called."
"What's this one called?"
"Paris by Night, 1963. Isn't that good?"
"Sure. Suitably vague. How about this one?" He holds up another. Black mixes into circles of yellow, making a
bilious green.
"No title for that one yet."
"What did you learn when you painted it?"
"Color blending."
"Trial and error?" Buddy asks.
"Yeah. Like life."
Buddy sets the painting down on the plastic. "Are you serious about this stuff? You really want to become an
artist or painter, or are you just looking for some distraction?"
Evans shakes his head and shrugs. "I don't know. I'm so fucking tired, all I really want to do is go to bed and
sleep for about a year. But I can't even sleep properly. I'm just so fucking tired all the time. And I want to
drink. You know, every time I stop and really think for a moment, I just feel the urge to drink and drink until
I can't even think."
Buddy remains kneeling, listening to his friend.
"You remember when you were a kid and you were just learning to drink, and you were out and there were hot chicks
and cool guys around, and you were getting so shit-faced and everything was fun and funny, and you were so
smashed that nothing mattered... there was no world outside that moment, stumbling around, saying stupid shit that
made no sense but seemed really funny. No problems, right? No worries. Just your stupid wasted self laughing and
having a dumb kid good time." He gives Buddy with a wistful look. "I think... I think that's my ideal moment.
If I could spend the rest of my life living out one moment, I think that would be it."
"That's not a very good sign."
"Yeah, don't I know it." He gets up and crosses back to the table. "You want another cigarette?"
"No thanks. Look man, this is going to sound kind of lame, like after-school special lame, but maybe you should get
some help."
"With the painting?"
"No, funny guy." Buddy gets up. "Look, you're obviously depressed. When you got here I figured you were
bad-breakup-depressed, and maybe late stage teen-angst depressed. Or maybe not depressed at all, just unhappy
because your life legitimately sucks and you just needed some changes and some cheering up. But I'm starting to
think that you're really just depressed-depressed."
"Well yeah, that's the real trick, isn't it?" Evans says. He sits down, opens the tobacco pouch. "Trying to figure
out if you're legitimately depressed or if you just have a shitty life. Must be hard for some people to decide."
"Can I ask you something serious?"
"You're getting really melodramatic, dude. It's pretty cheesy. This better not be the question I think it's
going to be."
"Have you thought about killing yourself?"
"Fuck, how did I know that would be the question?" Evans licks the edge of his cigarette, smiles at his friend
and shakes his head, as though to say naughty, naughty. "Okay," he says at last, lighting the smoke.
"Yeah. I think it over sometimes. I'm not going to do it. But I think it over for laughs sometimes."
"Yeah, hilarious. You make a plan?"
Evans nods. "I figure I'm too cowardly to do any cutting, so I can't slash myself. Can't get a gun to shoot
myself either, and I figure those are really unfair ways to go. Someone else has to clean up the mess,
right? And anyway, I'd want to leave a tidy corpse."
"So?"
"So you use poison. But what do I know about poison? I want to go out painless, in my sleep if possible. And
since I know nothing about chemistry, I would have to get some straightforward stuff."
"Which would be..." Buddy says, motioning with his hands for Evans to get to the heart of the matter.
"Alcohol poisoning!" Evans says with a laugh. "Simple, dependable alcohol poisoning. I get a couple bottles of
over-the-counter cough syrup and cold medication. You know, the strong shit, right? Plus a bottle or two of
sleeping pills. And I get a pile of booze. I make it beer and soft liqueurs. The nice tasting stuff, not all
hard shit like vodka or whiskey. I would just puke that stuff out, right?"
"I guess."
"So I rent a dozen movies, and start drinking. I do a cold pill, two sleeping pills and a shot of booze followed
by a beer, then repeat until I pass out. When I wake up, I do it again until I pass out again. I repeat and
repeat until eventually my system gets overloaded and I just drift away in a boozy haze."
Buddy stares for a long moment. "Evans, that wouldn't work. You'd just end up with a series of awful hangovers
and puke all over the apartment. It wouldn't really kill you."
Evans smiles sadly. "That's okay," he says. "I don't really want to die." He looks out the window for a long time.
"I could go for a beer," he says at last. "You mind spotting
me one? I'm short until Friday."
After another pause, Buddy nods. "Sure. I think I could use one too. I guess I'm not really cut out for this
intervention stuff."
"You're doing fine," Evans says, pulling on a pair of pants. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
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