FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS - THE END

She was all dolled up, her dress perhaps bought just for this occasion, her face smothered with cosmetics. This arsenal of beauty products was to aid in the cause of winning over, if not my heart, at least a more southern region. As for my counter cause, I knew it had been accomplished when rivulets of mascara began marking trails down her cheeks. I had never been so hell bent on hurting someone before. Forceps and a scalpel can be useful instruments to operate on one's heart, but when delicacy fails, a sledgehammer may be required to get the job done.

I was tempted to apologize, to make a gesture of retribution. I received no pleasure from such cruelty, which had gone far beyond the brutal honesty I am occasionally backed into administering. My natural inclination is to soothe a lady in distress. But some damage it's best not to undo.

"I'm sorry I've made life so miserable for you, Michael. I guess I wanted someone to be as unhappy as I am."

I remained stone. Freedom was moments away.

Yvette removed a compact mirror from her purse and surveyed the wreckage her face had become.

"May I use your bathroom? Then I'll be out of your hair for good."

"Go ahead."

It was done. Before I could revel in the victory however, my phone rang. Answering it dropped emergency number two into my lap.

It was Jamal. He didn't say much, but worried me plenty. Ever since learning of his condition, he had been drifting progressively further into despair. His spirit had been sapped, it seemed to take most of his energy just to breathe.

For the most part he didn't bemoan his fate verbally. He simply turned himself off, immersed so deeply in self-pity that both physically and spiritually he was scarcely recognizable from his former life loving self. If he ever did reach the point of having full blown AIDS, it didn't seem the disease would have much to take. I and a few other close friends had done our clumsy best to be of comfort, talking up the medical advances that made his unfortunate condition no longer a death sentence, telling him that he would be just like Magic Johnson, afflicted by little more than some added weight. But nothing registered to Jamal other than the echo of his doctor's words bouncing off the walls of his skull.

He was obviously drunk or high or both when he called, his speech slurred beyond much comprehension, following little logic. One thing was clear though. His intention was to bid me farewell. He hung up mid-sentence.

"Yvette, I don't mean to rush you but there's something I have to take care of right away."She did not respond, unless one counts the sobs I heard.

"Yvette, can you hear me? I need to get out of here." More sobs and tissues being blown to smithereens. I tried to turn the knob of my bathroom door but she had locked herself in. Every second was precious. I had no more to waste on this woman.

"I have to go, Yvette. Show yourself out."

Ten minutes later I arrived at Jamal's apartment, which was thankfully easier to enter than my bathroom. He sat on his sofa with a bottle of tequila in one hand, half of a lime in the other. Playing loudly on the television was one of those Indian musicals he got such a kick out of. Lying obscenely on his coffee table was a revolver. He had never mentioned owning one before.

"I hooked up last night," Jamal said as I muted the television. Being a good host even in this time of crisis, he offered me a swig of tequila which I accepted, and a bite of lime which I declined.

"You should have seen her. She reminded me of that Baywatch chick, but with a bigger ass."

"Sounds pretty hot."