"Matt, I need some help."
Huh, I thought to myself. Why was it that people often called me when they needed assistance? Because I am a talented person, capable of handling a diverse selection of issues? Possibly. Or maybe it was due to the fact that I always kept my cool, no matter the obstacle. After years of dealing with other peoples' problems, though, I came to the conclusion that I was simply a sucker for anyone in need.
"Uh...Matty. You still there?"
Regretfully coming back to reality, I responded to Kyle's query with a questionable grunt.
"Are you sick?" Kyle asked tentatively.
"Yeah. I'm sick of having to deal with everyone else's prob..." I hesitated. This was Kyle, after all, a decade-long friend who not only rarely asked for any help, but who had also been there for me in times of personal need. I stuttered over the word "problem" and went on to assure Kyle that I was not at all ill.
"Ya sure? That sounded like one helluva grunt."
"A temporary thing, but it is resolved now. What's going on, lightweight?"
I had a number of nicknames for Kyle, most of which revolved around him being a wrestler. An athletic young man, Kyle was a successful wrestler for the high school we graduated from last spring. He gained a few pounds since then, which is to say he maybe weighed 120. Kyle had a nicely formed torso—small but defined pecs, a visible six pack and a stunning Adonis belt—that he enjoyed to flaunt to any and all who crossed his path, including all of us who were his teammates and saw him daily in the locker room. I admired his hot looks, especially his smooth and hairless skin. Damn, I reflected, to be back in that locker room...
"Lightweight? God, have you seen me lately? I must have gained..."
"...five pounds since high school. Yeah, big guy, we all know you have lost control of your weight. What are you now, 140 pounds?"
I threw in the extra twenty pounds just to piss him off. Kyle became instantly defensive.
"140 pounds! Are you serious? Who is saying that about me? Damnit, I weighed myself this morning and the scale read 119. 140!" He exclaimed one more time.
Smiling to myself, I said, "All state, I'm just pissing with you. You should know that about me by now. Anyway, about this help you needed." I stopped talking in hopes that Kyle would transition into telling me how I could help.
"140 pounds, Matty. That was pretty fucking mean. Just because you maintained your weight at 157 doesn't mean you can toss out shit to everyone else." Here Kyle paused, taking a deep breath and settling himself. "Umm...yeah, about that help I mentioned earlier. I'm not really sure how to even begin talking to you about this stuff, but it has to do with me and Elise. I was wondering if you could offer me some advice."
Kyle's comment wasn't that out of the norm. He and I often discussed the ladies we were dating. "Ok. That's nothing, Kyle. What do you want to know?" I asked.
"Well, that is the thing. I have an odd request for you. Is there any chance you wouldn't mind me stopping by your place for a bit? This whole thing requires you to see something."
I quickly scanned my apartment. My roommates left in a hurry to head home for fall break; I was told they were simply too rushed to wash their dirty dishes and clean up all the trash that somehow seems to accumulate in any area inhabited by college men. Books, empty cans, some Chinese food containers, and a flock's worth of feathers from the pillow we tore up in a drunken frenzy dominated the living room. A kaleidoscope of jackets and wrestling gear somehow levitated near the entry. Oh wait, they were draped over the kitchen table! The kitchen itself resembled a piece of modern art I was forced to study for class: a broken beer stein guarded a corner of our countertop, while at least two cases of mostly empty beer bottles created a maze over the rest of the expanse. A loaf of Wonder bread occupied the sink and some halved oranges adorned the handles on the cupboards. Much like the art, the scene in my kitchen seemed to make sense the night we caused the mess, but I found no meaning while looking at it the next day.
"No problem, Kyle, as long as you don't mind a little mess."
"Sweet. I'll be over in a few."
I hung up and started whistling Leonard Cohen's "Closing Time" while reclining on my couch, only to jump when I felt a sting in my lower back. How the hell did that fork get there? And what was that covering the utensil...shit, Miracle Whip? I chuckled while wondering exactly what all we did the night before.
***
I had just finished hiding the fork in a roommate's bed when I heard the most annoying sound offered in an apartment: the incessant buzzing of someone trying to get through the front door. With the couch now free of all signs of Miracle Whip, I returned to my comfortable post and awaited my friend and his unknown odd request.
A harsh knock sounded from the front door. I yelled for Kyle to come in, which he did, only to immediately disappear from view.
"What'd you do?" I asked after jumping from the couch. There was Kyle, slowly rising from the floor and attempting to understand what he was seeing in my apartment.
"A little mess? Christ, Matty, this is beyond anything I've seen for a long time. How many people did you have over last night?"
"Well, let's see. There was Dustin, Tyler, Luke, me...yeah, just the four of us. No, Jeremy came back late, too. So that makes five. Ha!" I guffawed, "You slipped on the Vaseline we spread over the floor for Jeremy. Oh shit, that's funny."
