A few moans and groans later and the deed is done. I freshen up in the bathroom and hear him say, “Babe? Can I borrow twenty bucks to cab it to Randolph Street?”
Whatever tender moment I thought we’d just shared ends abruptly with the financial ask.
“How about I leave you my bus pass?” Bargain with me, pal. Please.
“I can’t exactly roll up to this meeting with Angela on a city bus. And I can’t risk being late because I had to take six different routes all over this fucking city. It’s impossible to get to the West Loop from here on public trans. You know that.”
He’s pitching it as if he’s interviewing for a job at the Board of Trade. I thought it was just coffee with some fan?
“Then text me when you want to go and I’ll order you an Uber. I have a credit.”
“You’re so obsessed about money stuff sometimes,” he says. He’s correctly identified my hesitation to give him what he wants, so he’s going for the hard sell. “But when I have a very important business meeting that could take care of you and me for a really, really long time, I can’t get twenty bucks to make sure I’m there on time. I seriously don’t understand you, Allie. I really don’t.”
Here it goes. The temper tantrum. Sometimes dating Benji is like raising an unpredictable teenager. One minute, we’re best friends. The next, he’s pissed I won’t let him ride his bike by himself to the movies. It’s hard to play mom with a guy you really enjoy fucking—and trust me, there’s no fetish there. I’ve explored it.
Still, I wonder, how is he so good at making it seem like I’m the one who’s so goddamn—
“You’re just being selfish,” he says offhandedly. I want to castrate him with his own paring knife. I’m not an ATM machine, for crying out loud. I’m his girlfriend.
“Benji. I literally do not have any cash on me. You—we spent it all at Republic.” It’s the truth.
“Well, then, I’ll walk downstairs with you and we’ll stop at the bank on the corner. It’s not that hard. And we can even get Starbucks before you head in to work.”
A Starbucks date with your bae before work sounds so romantic and cheeky. The ironic thing here is that when he kisses me goodbye and sends me off to show up fifteen minutes late to work with a vanilla latte in hand, he really doesn’t have a clue what I do. He knows I tweet about cotton swabs but whether or not this is my dream job, how long I’ve been working there, who my coworkers are, what the watercooler drama is...those are all things that never come up. It’s almost painful how indifferent he is about the details of my career, but then I remember there probably isn’t room for two at the top. And right now, and most likely always, what Benji’s got cooking matters much more, and to many more, than my day-to-day.
“Fine, but let’s go. We need to hurry,” I concede.
On the elevator ride down, I think about what We can get Starbucks really means—that I’ll be buying for the both of us. But as a recovering addict, Benji’s two green-lit vices are cigarettes and caffeine—neither of which he seems to get enough of. At least three times a week, Benji wakes up in the middle of the night and brews a pot in my little kitchen. It’s like he’s a prisoner to the hankering. I almost feel bad for him. At least it’s better—and cheaper—than blow.
* * *
Hey @AllieSimon...you need to come pick your boy up lol, read the tweet from someone I eventually figured out was a coworker at his old restaurant. I wasn’t sure on what planet something like this warranted a “lol,” but the kid uploaded a picture of Benji curled up in the fetal position, passed out by a Dumpster. Good god, I thought.
This took place before Benji had announced to the world that we were an item, and it was my first clue that maybe our rendezvous wasn’t so secret after all. How this kitchen worker knew to tag me in a tweet like that was equal parts unsettling and flattering.
I ignored my phone the rest of the day, denying that this could actually be my responsibility (no, really...we’re just fucking. Call someone else!). But at around midnight, a text that woke me up became a text I couldn’t pass over.
Can I come over? Please? Need 2 C U.
He needed to see me. And regardless of the circumstances, I liked the way that sounded and said yes.
When he stumbled into my unit, shaking and pale, I immediately settled him onto my couch and wrapped him in a blanket. I asked him what the hell happened, but the details were fuzzy. I’m not sure if he was being vague to spare me, or because he couldn’t recall all the gory specifics.
“Are you high? Can you at least tell me that?” I begged for more information.
“No. I swear. But I did get high Monday. And Tuesday. And yesterday. And now I think I’m having withdrawals.”
FML.
“Okay, so, what do I do? Do you need water? Crackers? Tylenol?” I didn’t realize then that treating withdrawal and nursing a hangover are two very different things.
“No, none of those things. It’s just gonna suck for a few days. Can you rub my back?” he asked me amid his distress. I placed my hand on him and felt a bulge the size of my fist under his skin.
“What is that?” I asked, grimacing slightly. I didn’t want to freak him out, but I was assuming the worst. A blood clot maybe?
“When I do too many drugs, I get these knots in my back. I don’t really know, just, can you keep rubbing?”
Scared as I was sitting that close to an overdose, it brought me comfort to know this wasn’t the first time he’d experienced these bulbous mutations.
“I think I’m going to go,” he said a few seconds later.
“Right now? You just got here. I feel like you should lie down.”
“No, I mean to rehab.” Boom, there it was. The first time Benji admitted that his drug use had evolved into something far more out of control than just a casual sniff off a credit card in a bathroom stall. But why to me, I wondered? Who was I in his life that he could so suddenly come to me in the middle of the night with his desperation as visible as the toxic lump protruding from his back? He must have known I wouldn’t judge him, call him a loser and tell him to get the hell out. Even I hadn’t known I was capable of such compassion until the need for it was physically and inescapably in front of me.
“What about your restaurant? Don’t you have to go to work?”
“It’s over,” he said.
I didn’t know if he quit or got fired, but I figured I’d let the food blogs figure that one out.
“Okay. So when would you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What? Why so soon?” A part of me selfishly couldn’t fathom our road coming to an abrupt dead end.
“This is going to get really bad, Allie. Soon. You aren’t going to be able to take care of this. I’ve already made the appointment. They’re expecting me to check in at 6:00 a.m.”
I took a big breath and looked at the time.
“Well, then, let’s get you back to your place to pack.”
“You can’t come over,” he said. “I can’t have you see what’s going to happen next. You’re too good for that. Trust me, okay? Please.”
At that point, I called him an Uber and walked him back down to my lobby. His eyes were the dopiest I had ever seen. From the withdrawal? Maybe. From the fact that both of us weren’t ready to accept this would be the last time we’d see each other for at least a month? Definitely.