Quicksand by Steve Toltz Page A

conversation.
    â€œHey, I know this is going to sound fantastically insensitive,” I said, “but seriously, Aldo, what kind of bullshit friends are these? They’re all sick. How can they all be sick? I mean, two is a coincidence. Three’s a pattern, but still within the realm of probability. But four? Five? Ten terminally ill pals? What gives?”
    He didn’t seem surprised to see me. “I run in different circles. You know that.”
    I did know that. Aldo lived in a way that often got me reevaluating my own modus operandi—lie low and keep out of people’s way. Aldo had weed friends, binge-drinking friends, Spanish-class friends, indoor-soccer friends, science-geek friends, hipster friends, vaguely criminal friends, business friends, school friends, old friends, new friends—now sick friends—he was an indiscriminate friendmaker, often caught in a freak friendstorm. Aldo had a thousand confidants, a thousand allies who frequently, depending on their level of financial investment, became a thousand enemies.
    â€œI need to talk to you.”
    â€œCome into my bedroom,” he said, leading me into his monastic yet untidy room at the end of the hall. One lamp, broken. One double bed, unmade. One apple core on bedside table atop a stack of psychology textbooks. One chair covered in an avalanche of underpants and T-shirts. One couple dry-humping on the bed.
    â€œLet’s try the balcony.”
    Out there the air was brittle and cold. Over the Navy Yard, where threegargantuan vessels were anchored, storm clouds formed. To the south, fireworks and a shifting curtain of smoke.
    â€œWhere is it?” I asked, at the same time as he exclaimed, “Stella’s pregnant!”
    It took me a moment to register. “With her husband’s baby?”
    â€œJesus. Why do you have to say it like that?”
    Inside someone switched tracks from Radiohead to Stevie Wonder. Aldo tightened his frown and leaned into me.
    â€œWhere’s what?” he asked.
    â€œI heard you bought Nembutal from a vet.”
    He flashed a smile as if from inside a raincoat. “So?”
    â€œNembutal, Aldo. The suicide drug.”
    â€œSo? So? So?”
    I got annoyed now. “So why don’t you just put a pistol in your mouth? Why are you sneaking around buying vet medicine? You do know that Nembutal is horse poison, right?”
    Aldo stubbed his cigarette out on the frosted glass of the circular table and said, “Of course I know. You think I want human poison? You’d have to pour yourself literally buckets of human poison just so you can reach the point where you can say: This is enough to kill a horse. So why not go straight for the actual horse poison and consume less?”
    All of a sudden I wished this were some artificial reality from which I would eventually be unplugged.
    A throat cleared theatrically. Doc Castle came out onto the balcony lighting a spliff, followed by three other men who moved in a confident, guileless manner that suggested divorced fathers with new girlfriends, or content homeowners who had just paid off their mortgages that very morning. Aldo made the introductions. Jeremy Samuels, lawyer. Evan Pascall, dentist. Graeme Frost, accountant. I stood there letting my face go slack. Aldo Benjamin, snake! He’d built personal connections with the full suite of professional services for his stupid human life where emergencies came with bizarre regularity. He was at home on the edge of hysteria, where he lived his open secret: that he was a disaster waiting to happen, or a disaster that had just happened, or a disaster that was currently happening. This methodical gathering of human fire hoses was shameless. I felt used and was overwhelmed with disgust to find myself face-to-face with these friendships that were all ugly mirrors of my own. I thought: Enough’senough. I would no longer offer myself as parachute, chaperone, or soft landing for