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134 F Jay and I used to bike to the gravel pits, past the No Trespassing signs. He biked right past and I followed. But when trucks came he was the one pulling me belly down into the gravel. You can’t let them see you, he said. What do they care, I said. We were just kids. But when we biked down the pit’s sides the gravel skidded out under our wheels, you could see we had been there: heaped-up spots and spots we’d splayed out in. His hand on my back, stomach pressed against the gravel, head down. I remember this fear, it still comes back to me. I get it most when I’m filling out forms—it doesn’t make sense, but it’s what Jay left me with. I filled out so many forms for him. Trying to get him checked in, trying to get him whatever. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t answer me either, he’d try to leave, that’s when I’d have to hold him, when I had to start calling our friends to fight him back into whatever building. We need that form, the receptionist said, I’m sorry. We need a fucking tranquilizer, I said. 135 Jay was already in the parking lot, I could hear the shouting and car doors. I’m sorry, I said to the receptionist. She hadn’t been rude. We just need to know what he’s on, she said. He’s definitely drunk, I said. Maybe he’s on some antidepressants . He really shouldn’t drink if—she started. Jesus Christ, I said. Sorry, I said to her or whoever in the lobby, put the clipboard down and went outside. Jay was leaning on the car, my dad standing next to him, not touching him. I put my hand on Jay’s shoulder and he shoved me off. • Now I fill everything out too fast, I don’t even read, I hand whatever clipboard back over. You didn’t finish, they say to me, pointing at the blank lines. But I won’t, I am making my point. ...
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