Hopita (hopita) wrote,

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"You're going up on the roof?"

"You're going up on the roof?"

Just hearing this question made me flash back to an awful night back in August of 1995. Maybe "awful" isn't the right word. A lot of awful things happened, and at the time I felt very sad and abandoned, but I also got that great feeling that you get when friends go above and beyond the call of duty, without even being asked.

I remember my friend Kathleen was having a party. She lived in an apartment that Monica and I had looked at back when we were apartment hunting together, toward the end of 1993. It was above the Lizard Lounge, on Augusta Avenue.

It was incredibly hot and steamy out that night. Daryk and I had not yet officially "broken up," but you could tell that the end was very near. Bob had moved out of the house he shared with creepy Neal (also on Augusta Avenue) and moved into the apartment upstairs from mine. I did not yet understand why Bob spent just about all of his time with John the cab driver. I invited Bob to the party before I headed out. I suspect I met Daryk there.

Daryk was blowing me off (in that special way that only a lover who wants out can). I was pissed off. I did what I so often inexplicably do when I'm angry at a lover: I got drunk. I remember smoking weed and drinking Negro Modelos with Eddy and Don.

And because of the heat, at some point in time, someone came up with the idea to go on the roof. This involved climbing up a ladder in someone's bedroom closet. I've never been much of a climber, let alone in a closet, nevermind when I'm both drunk and stoned. I wisely declined. I guess Daryk saw this as the perfect opportunity to ditch me altogether, because I quickly watched his feet disappear up and into the closet. In retaliation, I got drunker.

I'd shifted from nicely toasted to seriously fucked up by the time Bob and John arrived. I remember there was cantaloupe. John was raving about how amazing the cantaloupe was and offered me some. I obliged, and, within minutes I was locked into Kathleen's tiny little washroom (in Chicago we call it a "wash room"), puking my guts out.

Daryk remained MIA. Bob and John kept knocking on the bathroom door until I was well enough to unlock it. Then they carted me out to the living room and deposited me on the couch. They apparently spent the next several minutes running around Kathleen's sweaty little apartment, grabbing every fan that they could find. Then those sweet boys plugged in all the fans in a semicircle around the couch so that they were all blowing on me.

Years later, Daryk told me that the next thing Bob did was to climb up on the roof, find him, and demand to know whether he planned to ditch me at the party or whether he was willing to take the responsibility for getting me home. Daryk said he'd get me home, and, before long he was leading me along that staggering walk of shame back to my building. Among other things, I remember that night for being the first time that Daryk brought me home, but did not spend the night. I don't think he even came inside. But that's another story.

After Bob's death, Daryk remarked that until that moment on Kathleen's roof, he'd not understood what a truly good guy Bob was, or what a good friend Bob was to me. He said that he really came to respect him that night.

Oh, and for some random reason, we're all supposed to list our mood as "quixotic" today. I don't really understand why, but what the Hell.
Tags: alcohol, august 1995, bob herries, chicago, daryk, friends, illness, marijuana, memories, parties, produce, vulgarweed

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