You Don't Want to See The Sun Go Down

Wednesday, June 2
Shane
English
Lexington, Kentucky


With one hand on the roof of his beige, weather-stained, dented, decrepit Isuzu pickup truck, the other hand, holding the key, already in the lock, Mike stops. He stops and he turns to me, as I hoped he would. His red Jansport backpack is slung around his shoulder. He’s wearing a white Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt, huge Tommy Hilfiger red and blue flag on the front, and he’s at least thirty feet away and there is very little light left outside but I can still just barely see myself reflected in his Ray-Bans, wondering if he can see himself reflected in mine, and I’m overcome with the realization—the absolute truth—that whatever Mike is about to say is something I’m going to remember for the rest of my life. I decide that the next sentence that comes out of Mike’s mouth, whatever it is, will be something I will remember for the rest of my life. 

I look back at him and wait, sepulchrul grey clouds encroaching behind him. At his feet, a circle of leaves catches wind and starts to swirl; the impetus of a storm. Thunder in the distance. A lone drop of cold rain on the tip of my nose. One on my forearm. Another on my calf, and one more on my nose. He removes his hat and his long black hair dumps into his face, over his eyes, over his Ray-Bans, blowing in the wind, and I take it as a salute, a gesture of respect. Almost out of reflex I remove my Ray-Bans.

 Today I knew exactly what Mike was going to say to me, and he said it, word for word, just like I knew he would, and this time I knew exactly what to say back to him.

Mike smiles at my reply, but just barely. He swipes his hair back, places his hat back on his head, turns back to his car, opens the door, starts his truck, and drives away. The rain picks up, almost on cue, as I stand in the parking lot and watch him go, watch him until his car turns down Gervais, makes a right on Assembly and disappears. Not because I want to watch him, but because I have to. Because I can’t move. Because my feet just won’t work. I try to make them, but they won’t.

This is how I remember Mike five hours later, as thunder rattles my windows, as rain pelts against my windshield, as my windshield wipers are doing seemingly no good as I drive down the 405. In front of me, the city, my city, my home, shrouded in blackness, in darkness, nothing more than a friend telling you a story his friend told him about a friend, the remnants of a fantastic dream you reach for just after you’ve awoke but just can’t seem to grasp.

Who am I to have known you? To have lived those nights beside you? To have seen and solved all of my dissonance within you?  Have you lived through these nights? Have you quieted your contentions in me? I reach out to you now. My brothers. My only brothers.