King Cobra

My friend Milo and I were meandering through the local Liquor Barn on a leisurely Sunday evening in search of suitable companions. We had only a month to go until graduation, but when Milo came upon a forty ounce bottle of King Cobra he decided immediately to drop out of school. The bottle was standing out broadly among the other forty ouncers in the coolers on the back wall of the store. It was a nice number, grand in its size alone, but it was the sharp majesty of the black and gold label that mesmerized Milo. He opened the freezer door and carefully reached inside to clasp the wide neck with his left hand. Milo marveled at the sight of the bottle; even the cap pleased him. Milo, who had been known to court many beers throughout his college years at Pomona, hade never been in love. On this day, however, Milo met his match.

I was browsing through one of the liquor aisles and had my eye on a cute little pint of Sunny Brook, but when I heard Milo gasp across the store I knew he had come across something extraordinary. I walked over to him and I saw his eyes gazing at those voluptuous letters on the label of the bottle. I knew at that moment that Milo’s days were numbered. In the scheme of things, I was just as much to blame for Milo’s downfall as he was. We were best friends and we'd pushed each other past our limits many times. I was so infatuated with my own special brands that I didn’t notice how far gone Milo was.

We had viewed the Crown Royals and Johnny Walkers and envied the trendy microbrews in the past, but as college students we weren’t yet in their league. We slummed with the so-called low-lifes and we never apologized for it. We weren’t into the Hollywood scene, we didn’t fall for the pinup models. No, we were men and we guzzled cases of pisswater with pride. “Fuck the rich fatcats,” we’d say to one another before cracking open another can of Milwaukee’s Beast. We had both been on scholarship and financial aid to start our college days, but by our senior year the scholarships had faded and we relied on school loans to get by. A hefty chunk of those loans made their way into the cash register of Liquor Barn. Alcohol, it must be said, is an important part of any college student’s education. If volumes of beer counted as credits we’d have graduated by the end of our sophomore years.

I patted Milo on the back and congratulated him on his find. He said nothing in return. He was drooling, entranced by the bottle. I quickly surmised that this was not puppy love. It wasn’t true love, though, either. This was clearly the beginning of a dysfunctional relationship, an unhealthy obsession. Still, I admired Cobra’s extraordinary physique; King, indeed.

I managed to walk Milo to the front of the store so we could pay and make our way. He never took his eyes off the bottle and when the cashier asked him to hand over the bottle so she could scan it Milo wouldn’t let go. Instead, he waved it over himself. The checkout girl shook her head and whistled low. She saw the same thing I did. I gave her a look that said, “I know, he’s pretty much gone.”

I paid for Sunny and a case of the Beast. I used my credit card which was fast reaching its limit; just about time to apply for another one. I knew I was going to eventually have to declare bankruptcy so I had long ago made the decision to run up as much debt as possible. Milo, meanwhile, was probably going to die of alcohol poisoning so there was no reason for him to be thrifty.

It was about eight o’clock when we left the store. We loaded the beer and liquor into my rusted ’74 Chevy Malibu. I started her up and she made a ghastly noise. There was a hole in the muffler so it sounded like roaring madness whenever I hit the gas. I started heading back to our apartment when I remembered I was supposed to pick up Frosty at Gimpy’s Guitar Gallery. I turned around and made it to Gimpy’s by 8:30. Frosty was pissed. I was supposed to pick him up an hour earlier. He had a fifth of vodka on him so I apologized.

It took Frosty a few minutes to calm down. Milo offered to crack his skull and Frosty let it go. Milo may have been a little lost in his affection for the King, but he was also a big dude who hated almost everyone. He sure as hell didn’t like listening to Frosty whine. The two of them did not get along at all. If not for me they’d have never hung out together. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that Milo would have beaten Frosty half to death if he had met him for the first time without me present.

Frosty’s trailor was only a five minute drive from Gimpy’s so we decided to go to his place to drink. Milo and I had already cracked open a can of the Beast and I didn’t want to drive another half hour back to our apartment. Milo seemed cool with it and Frosty just wanted to get the hell home.

I pulled up to Frosty’s and put the Malibu in park. It sputtered and shit and then pinged for a few seconds. God knows how many miles the thing had left in it, but it was alive for now. As we exited the car with our beer and liquor, Frosty’s old lady was out the door screaming at Frosty in Spanish. Milo and I looked at each other and shook our heads, nonverbally acknowledging our stupidity for thinking we could drink in peace at Frosty’s.

Frosty bitched right back at her in English even though he had no idea what Delfia had said. He didn’t speak or understand a word of Spanish and Delfia didn’t speak English although she seemed to understand a little. Frosty was a skinny guy, about thirty years old. He was also a weasel of sorts, no match at all for the fiery passion of Delfia. What she saw in him I had no idea. I didn’t know for sure, but I guessed she was an illegal. Why the hell else would she shack up with Frosty?

Delfia was the same height as Frosty but she was much more athletic. Milo and I had been to their place a few times and every time the two of them fought. Not just verbally, but physically, too. And every time Delfia kicked Frosty’s ass, verbally and physically. Honestly, if there was a domestic violence call I’d have to say Delfia would be the one arrested.

Milo and I stood back while Frosty approached the steps of the trailer. He held out the bottle of vodka and this seemed to calm Delfia. She went inside and Frosty waved for us to follow as he walked through the doorway. I closed the door after I entered. The place was a mess, chaotic clutter and grimy filth. In a way, it was perfect for the type of drinking we planned. As I handed Frosty the case of the Beast I saw there was a twelve pack of Hamm’s in his fridge. Good. Milo put his bottle of Cobra in the fridge as well. I guessed he wanted to get a good buzz going before drinking that sweet malt liquor.

Delfia went to the couch and threw clothes and a few empty pizza boxes on the floor so she could sit down. Milo sat in a barcalounger, not even bothering to move the magazines or underwear out of the way. Frosty sat on the couch with Delfia and I sat in a rocker. I’d grabbed three beers for myself so I wouldn’t have to get up any time soon. Milo had two cans, one open. Frosty had his fifth and he drank straight from it. Delfia grabbed it out his hand and took a swig. I cracked one of my cans open and guzzled about half of it in one drink.

We drank in silence for several minutes, all of us pretty much burnt out. Frosty attempted to put his arm around Delfia but she smacked him in the face with the back of her hand. Frosty yelped and grabbed his nose. It was bleeding. Delfia, fuck man, she was fucking fierce. I looked over at Milo. He was smiling. He took a drink of his beer and sighed. The one thing Milo enjoyed about going to Frosty’s was watching Delfia beat on him. I don’t think he cared much for Delfia, but he did like watching a woman beat the crap out of Frosty.

Frosty started in on Delfia. He turned to her and said, “You’re a fucking bitch, fucking puta!" Delfia swung her far hand at Frosty, attempting to really clock him, but Frosty blocked it. He took a swig from the bottle of vodka, put it down on the end table, and then whipped around and slammed his fist into Delfia’s gut. It looked like he caught her in the solar plexus. She doubled over and wheezed, trying to catch her breath. She was clearly in pain and it appeared that her eyes were watering. I had finished my first beer, had cracked open the second, and had drank most of it. I finished it off as I watched the action unfold. I cracked open my third as Milo got up to go to the fridge. He pointed at me and I nodded yes. He came back with five beers, two for me, two for him, and one for Delfia.

Delfia had mostly recovered and she said gracias when Milo handed her the beer. He nodded his head and sat back down. Frosty had the bottle of vodka in his hand again and he took another swig. He offered the bottle to Delfia and she took it. She took a big drink, handed it back to Frosty, and then opened the can of beer.

Again, we sat silently for several minutes. Frosty got up and walked over to his antiquated stereo. He moved some boxes that were in front of the speakers and then pushed play on the CD player. The sound of Rush’s Spirit of Radio filled the trailer. Frosty asked if anyone was up for a pizza. Milo and I agreed so Frosty called and ordered. We knew that pizza was code for coke. Frosty preferred meth being half a tweeker but he knew Milo and I weren’t into crystal. We were more than happy to partake in an eightball of yayo, though.

Frosty asked if we had any dough on us. We didn’t. There was a convenience store within walking distance of the trailer park, though, so Milo and I got up to go. We each took a beer with us as we left. I didn’t know how much I had left on my credit cards. Two were maxed out and I didn’t think the other two had much to spare. Milo was in better shape, though, so I figured we’d have enough to cover our shares between the two of us.

We’d finished our beers by the time we got to the store. We tossed them in the trash and walked into the store. We went to the ATM. I checked my limit and realized I had more than I thought. I took out some extra cash so I could buy another twelve pack. After Milo withdrew his cash and we bought the beer, we headed out the door. A lowrider pulled up thumping its bass and working its hydraulics. We admired the ride but we had business back at Frosty’s. It was likely he’d made the call and we weren’t sure when the pizza delivery would arrive. The guy always brought an empty pizza box to deliver the blow. That was the reason there were so many empty pizza boxes in Frosty’s trailer. Delfia was sure to blow her top, but it’d be a good show before she stormed out of the place. She’d give Frosty a good tongue-lashing and probably a few kicks and punches. That was how it usually went down.

We got back to Frosty’s and went inside. Delfia was in the bathroom and Frosty looked at us expectantly. We handed him the cash. He said his guy would be by in an hour or so. I put the twelve pack in the fridge. There was plenty of room because there was almost no food in there. I saw a jar of pickles, a package of cheese slices, and a gallon of milk. That was it except for the beer.

I grabbed a cold one and handed one to Milo. He pounded his down, crushed the can, and grabbed another before going back to the living room to sit in the lounger. I cracked mine open and went back to the rocker. The stereo was still playing but now it was Metallica’s Blackened. Frosty was on the couch with a can of Hamm’s in his hand. The vodka sat on the end table, about a quarter of it gone. For a skinny guy Frosty could put ‘em away. Nothing like Milo, of course, but Milo was in a league of his own when it came to alcohol. He’d been drinking since was twelve, heavily since he was sixteen. I placed myself somewhere in the middle of the two. Some nights I could keep up with Milo beer for beer, shot for shot; other nights, Frosty would put me under the table. With the powder coming we were all going to be drinking beyond our capacity. It was possible we’d have to go back to the convenience store for more booze.

Delfia came out of the bathroom and went to the fridge. She grabbed a can of Hamm’s and a slice of cheese. She pulled off the plastic wrapper on her way to the living room, threw it on the floor, and sat down. She gobbled the cheese in a few bites and then opened the beer. After I finished my can I reached down to the side of the rocker and grabbed the brown bag wrapped around my pint of Sunny. I screwed off the cap and took a healthy swig. I had a good buzz going. I think we all did, but Milo seemed practically sober. I started to wonder when he was going to break out the Cobra. I supposed he wanted to have a better buzz so he could use it to push him over the edge into drunkenness.

Milo could be a bear while drunk. He rarely got completely hammered because we rarely had enough beer and liquor to get him into that state. I’d seen him finish a fifth of whiskey single-handedly and all he had was a heavy buzz. The fucker could drink. I’d wager on him if he entered a beer drinking contest. The odds wouldn’t pay out well at all if anybody was familiar with him. Not too many were, though. Like I said, he hated most people and few hung around him often enough to know how much he drank on a nightly basis. How he’d managed to pass his classes for three and a half years was beyond me. He was quiet when he wasn’t drunk, but his silence seemed to hide his intelligence. He was a whiz at math, I knew that. He’d bailed me out on more than one occasion when I couldn’t fathom mathematical concepts. He had an innate knack for understanding abstraction.

Frosty on the other hand was dumb as a box of rocks. His primo drug connections were the only thing he had going for him as far as Milo and I were concerned. Well, it was also entertaining to watch him fight with Delfia. It freaked us out the first time we witnessed it. We’d met Frosty at a party in Riverside, how we’d gotten there from Pasadena I have no idea, but he happened to come out to the backyard to piss on the fence at the same time Milo and I were relieving ourselves. He turned to us and said, “Hey, you guys want to get high? I’ve got some killer skunk in my car." We looked at each other, shrugged, and said sure.

We walked around the side of the house and got in his car. He had a big, fat blown-glass pipe and he handed it to Milo. Milo fired it up and when he exhaled the car stunk something fierce … but it was damn fine sweet stink. Milo let out a low moan and turned to me. “Dude, the shit is good.” We passed the pipe around a few times and then Frosty said, “You guys want to get out of here? My old lady’s got a quarter ounce of blow back at my trailer.” Fuck yeah, we were ready to go!

Like I said, I don’t know how we got to that party, but neither Milo nor I drove. So Frosty drove us back to his place—that was well before he’d had his licensed revoked and his car was stolen—and we met Delfia for the first time. She was eating fried chicken from a bucket when we entered. She was completely wasted, drunk and stoned. Frosty gestured to her, making a snorting sound. Delfia pointed a drumstick toward the bedroom and Frosty walked to the back of the trailer. Milo sat down in the lounger and I in the rocker; this would become our permanent seating arrangement at Frosty’s.

Frosty came back in the room with a black film container. He swiped his arm across the coffee table, knocking everything on it to the floor. He opened a drawer on the side of the wooden table, pulled out a metallic slab about 8x8, and placed it on the table. He took the lid off the container, dumped a few sizable rocks and some powder onto the slab, put the lid back on the container, and then pocketed it. He reached back into the drawer, pulled out a very interesting looking razor-edged rectangle, and started mashing and dicing the coke. Once the coke was finely powdered he separated the pile into eight fat lines. Really fat. He went ahead and did a line with a metal coke straw and then motioned for us to have at it. We had nothing fancy for snorting so we each took out a bill from our respective wallets. Milo went first, snorting half a line in one nostril and the other half in the other nostril. He bolted upright after each snort, his eyes wide and watering. “Holy shit, this is really fucking clean, man!” Frosty smiled and nodded.

I took my turn and then Delfia had a toot. She woke up a bit from her stupor. Hell, we all did. Frosty had beers in the fridge—thank God—and brought each of us one. Soon enough Frosty, Milo, and I were jabbering away, licking our chops, eyeing the other lines, and occasionally letting out a “WOW! Holy fucking shit, man. Whoooo!” We were flying.

After we did the other lines and drank more beer, Delfia laid into Frosty. I never did figure out what the commotion was about but she screamed at him in Spanish for a good five minutes. Frosty just bounced around in his seat, almost getting angry at times, but way too high to stay pissed for more than a few seconds. That really pissed off Delfia and she smashed her half-filled beer can on top of his skull. Frosty screamed, rolled over on the couch, and clutched his head. Delfia sat back down and folded her arms. She whispered, “Pinche pendejo,” mostly too herself as Frosty was pretty much incapacitated. Milo looked at me wide-eyed and I mouthed to him, “What the fuck?” He shrugged and started laughing.

Over time Milo and I visited Frosty more and more often, adding a steady diet of pot and blow to our staples of beer and liquor. We found ourselves losing touch with more and more of our college friends. Well, I did, anyway. Milo didn’t really have any friends other than me, more a matter of choice on his part. He just hated people. I’m not sure why he liked me, but when we met our freshman year we just clicked. The truth is I don’t like people all that much, either. I just faked it because having friends had certain benefits I liked, such as access to alcohol, drugs, and women. I think that’s why I liked Milo as much as I did. He hated everyone and wasn’t bashful about it. No one called him out on being an asshole because everyone was afraid he’d kill them. Their fears were warranted. Milo had beaten several college students and locals to bloody pulps during his first two years at Pomona. He hadn’t had much action the past year as his reputation preceded him.

As we were all drinking our beers and bottles of booze, the pizza arrived. Frosty paid the guy and asked him if he wanted to stay for a beer and a line. The guy declined, saying he had other pizzas to deliver. I got up to get a beer and looked out the door as the guy left. Sure enough he had a pizza sign on top of his car. Smart cover.

I grabbed a beer and made my way back to the living room. Frosty broke out his coke tray and dumped out the eightball. He mashed and diced it with his special razor. Milo, meanwhile, had grabbed his forty-ounce King Cobra. He’d opened the cap and was inhaling it as if he’d just uncorked a fine wine. He placed both hands on the side of the bottle and lifted it to his lips. He tilted it back and drank … and drank … and drank. He finished more than half the bottle in one guzzle. He removed it from his lips, smiled, and let out a nasty, loud, smelly burp. Delfia yelled at him in Spanish and got up to leave the living room. Frosty bitched at him as well, saying, “Hey, man, I’m working here!” I held my nose for a good minute. Milo just laughed and admired the label of the bottle.

Once Frosty had chopped up the coke he carved out four healthy lines. He separated the rest of the pile from them and then went ahead and snorted his. I took my cue with a bill I figured I’d be using at the convenience store later and zoomed my line. Delfia returned to do hers and then walked back to the bedroom, probably to get as much space between her and us as she could. Milo took another drink from his forty, put the bottle on the table, and snorted his line with a rolled up bill. I wondered if he’d be going back to the convenience store to buy more Cobras.

Frosty turned on the stereo and Tool’s Lateralus CD played. I had had a very heavy buzz before vacuuming my line, but now I felt awake and ready to really pound some liquor. I grabbed my pint of Sunny and took a big swig before getting up to grab a few beers from the fridge. Delfia passed by me on her way back to the living room. She was holding something in her hand, but I couldn’t see what it was. As I turned around I saw Delfia swing a metal flashlight across Frosty’s face. I saw an arc of blood squirt several feet in the air toward the back wall of the living room. It made a hell of a splatter design; I thought Dexter would probably love that one. Hell, I admired it myself, but then again I’d long wondered if I was a sociopath. How would you really know if you were one? Would a sociopath be curious about whether or not he was a sociopath? I wasn’t sure, but I certainly wondered.

I felt nothing for Frosty as a person, either in this case or any other. I was just glad he was able to hook us up with good drugs. I loved watching Delfia fight with him, but in the same way I enjoyed good mixed martial arts fights. Of course, I enjoyed Delfia’s fights even more because I had a front row seat and I knew both her and Frosty. Their relationship was so weird and violent … and, yet, I liked it. I thought it was much more interesting than the relationships of my college friends. They were so predictable and pedestrian. There was real passion here and I longed for high intensity emotions. Hell, that was why I drank, took drugs, drove dangerously, and fucked women who scared me. I just didn’t give a fuck, really. I’d had so many high-intensity experiences that even Delfia’s violence was beginning to bore me.

I casually made my way back to my seat in the rocker while watching Delfia scream in Spanish at her deadened boyfriend. I couldn’t tell if he was knocked out or if he was just playing possum so he wouldn’t get hit again. I noticed that the coffee table had been jostled and the blow—oh, shit! Most of the coke was scattered about the coffee table and some had fallen to the grungy carpet on the floor. Fuck! Milo saw this, too, and he quickly began working to salvage the powder. He was using a credit card from his wallet to scrape the coke into a small pile on the wooden table. That was where most of the coke, probably two-thirds of it, had gone.

I grabbed the metal tray and put it on the end table. I took out one of my credit cards and started dicing it up, shaping it into a line. It was a huge line, close to half a gram I guessed. I said to myself, “Fuck this shit,” and I rolled my bill again and snorted half of it into one nostril and zoomed the other half into the other. I gummied the residue, sat back in my chair and let out a howl, “Holy fucking Batman and Shitfucker! Whoooooo! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!

I looked over and saw Milo looking at me. He was half laughing and half pissed. I mouthed to him, “Do all of it on the coffee table, man.” He shrugged his shoulders and nodded an okay. He had already carved up three lines, probably around a gram's worth with the sprinkled residue scattered here and there. He re-rolled his bill, leaned over the table, finished one line up his left nostril, and the other up his right. He leaned back and groaned loudly.

I looked over at Delfia and Frosty thinking it seemed like a decade sent she’d smashed him in the face. I’d seen movement between the two of them out of my peripheral vision, but I was too focused on the coke to bother with them. I looked more intently now and saw that Delfia was trying to choke Frosty as he was punching her in the face from his back on the floor. I said aloud to Milo, “You’d better do that other line, man, because they’re gonna hit the table again.” Milo, red-faced and breathing rapidly, nodded his head. Each eye looked like an eclipse, all black except for radiant reds, yellows, and whites sparking out from the dark side of the moon. He bent over and zoomed the other line the best he could, but he left a little on the table. I quickly hopped up and snorted the rest of it. Milo, though he clearly didn’t need it, ran his fingers over the coffee table and gummied what he could. He was going at it like a crack whore, desperately searching the coffee table for more.

I looked back over at Delfia and Frosty. Frosty had gotten up off his back and kicked Delfia in the crotch. It probably doesn’t hurt as much for a woman than it does a man, but I didn’t think it felt good, either, judging from the way Delfia fell onto the couch. Frosty pounced on her and as he did I noticed that his face was covered in blood. I thought it had been his nose she’d smacked, but it looked like he had a gash on his forehead and the blood was gushing down his face. It was like a scene from a Quentin Tarantino film. Frosty straddled Delfia and started wailing away with both fists. It looked like Delfia was blocking most of the blows as she had covered her face like a boxer. She was a tough one, Delfia. She had the wherewithal to knee Frosty in the balls. He screamed out and slowly fell to his side. Delfia quickly got up and ran out of the trailer.

I wondered to myself, “What did Frosty do this time?” I knew he cheated on her and I knew she knew that, but I doubted that had anything to do with their fight this night. Sometimes it just seemed that they fought because that was what they did. Some couples kiss and make love, Frosty and Delfia get drunk, do blow, and beat the shit out of each other. I really liked it. Again, I wondered whether I was a sociopath. The possibility fascinated me even more than the fight itself. I liked the idea of being a sociopath. It seemed like a cool thing to be. You never have to give a fuck about anyone. I realized I liked Milo because he was a sociopath. That had to be it. It was like we recognized ourselves in each other and admired each other for having similar values … or the lack thereof.

I turned to Milo to tell him about this idea, but he was scrounging on the carpet trying to find coke in between the carpet stains. I simply gawked at him. I didn’t know what to think. But then I did and I said to Milo, “Dude, you just snorted about a gram of coke, man. Do you really need the few flakes that might be on the ground? You’re probably putting dried crumbs or flecks of cum in your mouth.” Milo didn’t even hear me. If he did, he tuned it out. I sat back, guzzled the rest of my flask, and listened to Tool.

Frosty brought me out of my reverie when he bumped my chair as he walked past me. I asked him if he was okay. Not because I cared about his wellbeing, just because I was curious. He grunted and then stumbled out the door, presumably after Delfia. I got up to get some beers from the fridge. I grabbed a couple for Milo, too. I figured he had probably finished the Cobra by now. When I turned back toward the living room I saw Milo in his chair. He had swallowed half the bottle in an apparent attempt to drink every last drop of the King. His eyes were bugged out and disturbingly loud gurgles were coming from his throat. He had both hands on the bottle, but I couldn’t tell if he was trying to remove it or push it in further.

I walked over to him and his eyes turned toward me. I couldn’t tell exactly what he was feeling, but his eyes seemed to be screaming in panic and pleading with me to help him. I put down the beers on the coffee table, all but one. I cracked that one open and took a big drink. As I took the can away from my lips I let out a satisfying, “Ahhhhh.” I sighed and smiled at Milo. He was more frantic now and he was trying to get out of his chair. The problem was he wouldn’t take his hands off the bottle. I asked him, “Do you want me to help you take the bottle out of your mouth or push it in further so you can get every drop of malt liquor?”

Milo’s eyes somehow became wilder and he shook in his seat. Noises came from his mouth and throat; it sounded like someone yelling underwater: “Muuurgle flehhh bhhuysh!” I said to Milo, “I have no idea what the fuck that means, man. Look, I’ll try to remove the bottle because you can always try to shove it further down your throat again if that’s what you’ve been trying to do. Don’t get pissed at me, though, if I’m misinterpreting. I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re trying to say.”

I put my hands around the bottle and was about ready to pull, but I stopped. I said to Milo, “You know, you fucked up a potentially interesting conversation, man. I was gonna ask you if you thought we were sociopaths. I think we might be.” I paused, realizing he couldn’t talk back. “Man, you’re a fucking buzz kill, making me fucking work when I’m trying to fucking drink.” My hands were still on the bottle and I gave it a good pull. Nothing. I climbed up on the chair, putting my feet on the arms on each side, and reached down with both hands. “If my back goes out because of this you’re gonna carry me wherever I want go from now on.” I took a deep breath and as I exhaled I pulled as hard as I could. At first nothing happened. My face was getting hot, I could feel sweat on my face and in my armpits, and my arms and legs were starting to quiver and shake.

Just when I was about to give up, the bottle popped out and I flew backward off the chair and landed on the coffee table, my back making a loud “wollup” sound. It knocked the air out of me, but after a minute or so I seemed to be okay. The beer bottle had flown through the air and shattered against the wall above the couch. I looked at Milo as I slowly got up off the coffee table. He had his head in his hands. He was weeping. I sat on the edge of the coffee table and put my hand on his shoulder. I asked him, “What’s wrong, man? Are you okay?” He didn’t look up but he shook his head no. “Can I do anything to help?” Milo looked up at me with tears streaming down his cheeks. His lips were bloody and his cheeks were red. It almost looked like he had stretch marks. He said to me, “I think I have a problem, man. I don’t think I can live like this anymore.”

I considered his words. I wasn’t sure what he meant so I asked him. “The drinking, the drugs, the violence. It’s all too much for me. I think I hit my breaking point.” My first thought was, “You fucking pussy,” but I didn’t say it. I wanted to say it, but I held back. He was too fragile for me to be myself. I realized right then that I probably wasn’t a sociopath. I was bummed out by that because it meant I gave a shit about Milo. I helped him up and walked him to the front door. I walked him over to the passenger side of the car and helped him inside. I went around to the driver’s side door and hopped inside. I fished out my keys and started the Malibu. It declared its ugliness with a roar and I put it in reverse. I looked behind me and the way looked clear. I was glad I’d done that fat fucking line. Took the edge off the drunk and I could see pretty well. It was a half hour drive back to our apartment and I figured the coke would get me through that stretch. I hated wasting a high to tend to Milo’s breakdown, but that’s what friends are for, I suppose. Damn, it sucks not being a sociopath.

Milo dropped out of school and checked into rehab. I never saw him again. I continued my wild ways. In a way, it was easier without Milo because he was the only person I cared about in this world. I was free to be the next best thing to a sociopath, just a guy who doesn’t a give a shit about anyone or anything. Now that I think about it, isn’t that what a sociopath is? I guess I graduated after Milo’s downfall.