{"id":6297,"date":"2024-04-30T15:18:56","date_gmt":"2024-04-30T19:18:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/?p=6297"},"modified":"2024-05-01T10:55:22","modified_gmt":"2024-05-01T14:55:22","slug":"chemical-company-by-matthias-glass","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/2024\/chemical-company-by-matthias-glass\/","title":{"rendered":"CHEMICAL COMPANY by MATTHIAS GLASS"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0It\u2019s a freezing February night and I\u2019m at my friend\u2019s dorm. In contrast to the twenty-<\/span>
degree weather outside, the room is warm with body heat. My friend group is gathered for a<\/span>
movie night and we sit snuggled in blankets or in the arms of significant others. During the<\/span>
course of \u201cExtremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile,\u201d something odd has happened; the<\/span>
gruff masculinity that my friend Kyle usually wears has fallen away. In its place is a softer, more<\/span>
feminine facade that reveals itself in his posture. He\u2019s lying on his stomach, feet kicking in the<\/span>
air behind him like a Playboy bunny. His personality has shifted too — he\u2019s giggling like an idiot<\/span>
and acting like a toddler, with the coordination to match. What could have stripped him of his<\/span>
swaggering masculine confidence? Maybe it was the three shots of vodka he downed before the<\/span>
movie, perhaps the orange juice and whiskey concoction he\u2019d been sipping throughout, or the<\/span>
swigs of rum he took when he got bored. Either way, here we are, a grown man acting like a<\/span>
child, tottering around giving hugs and making an ass of himself. I find it sad, imbibing a toxic<\/span>
liquid just to return to the ostensibly happier persona of one’s childhood self. Is adulthood really<\/span>
that hard? Is it a state of existence so unpleasant that you would give up the ability to walk in a<\/span>
straight line just to escape it for a few incoherent hours? Kyle claims he\u2019s not an alcoholic,<\/span>
merely a social drinker. Social drinking: taking the precious time you have with the people you<\/span>
care about, and spending it piss-drunk and unintelligible. Sure, sounds great. While I might find<\/span>
Kyle\u2019s intoxicated state to be sad, he couldn\u2019t be enjoying it more. The alcohol has relieved him<\/span>
of his standards for humor along with his critical thinking skills, and now the world is his farce.<\/span>
Stare at him long enough and he\u2019ll try in vain to hold back an inevitable tide of unprompted <\/span><\/div>\n
laughter, his dark brown eyes looking like they’re about to pop under the pressure. I\u2019m just glad<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

that we got happy-drunk Kyle tonight. Sad-drunk Kyle scares me. Sad-drunk Kyle is a man in<\/span>
crisis, unable to forget the cruel disappointments of adulthood, and has deprived himself of the<\/span>
emotional intelligence to cope with it. I hate being around sad-drunk Kyle, but I don\u2019t feel safe<\/span>
leaving him alone either. I don’t know what a man in that state would do to escape it, so I just<\/span>
make him some eggs and hope I don\u2019t find out. Drinking for Kyle is a gamble. He might end up<\/span>
in the happy and oblivious state we envy our younger selves of. Or he could end up as a scared<\/span>
child, emotionally unprepared and unable to forget the horrors of adult life, the coldness, the<\/span>
emptiness, the despair. What an awful thing to do to a kid.<\/span><\/p>\n

With one last overly affectionate hug from Kyle, I leave around midnight with my<\/span>
roommate, Jack, and his girlfriend. He walks her back to her dorm, and I go back to our room to<\/span>
sleep. The room is cold, and I curl up for warmth in my chilled bed, but my protosleep is quickly<\/span>
interrupted by Jack\u2019s return. He stands in my doorway, tall and blonde, with the facial hair of an<\/span>
18th century Dutch colonialist. He says to me, \u201cHey man, there\u2019s a dude tweaking out near<\/span>
Wilson, could you back me up while I see if he needs help?\u201d Despite looking like he\u2019s involved<\/span>
in the transatlantic sugar trade, Jack is a saint. I throw on a jacket and we head outside.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s bitterly cold and snowing. I\u2019m already shivering and even Jack, Nordic-blooded and<\/span>
Colorado bred, is admitting that it\u2019s a bit chilly out for his basketball shorts. As we round the<\/span>
corner, I see a man gesticulating at a wall like he\u2019s trying to teach it karate. This must be him.<\/span>
We approach, and Jack gives a jovial, \u201cHey man how\u2019s it going?\u201d The man turns around and I<\/span>
finally get a good look at him. He\u2019s a young Native American man, around my age, with straight<\/span>
black hair and a warm-brown complexion. His clothes are comically baggy, borderline clown <\/span>attire.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s swimming in an XL red hoodie, and it looks like he borrowed his sweatpants from the Elephant Man.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n

The man starts saying something, but his words are so slurred that I can\u2019t make anything<\/span>
out. He\u2019s swaying back and forth, and he keeps sifting through his pockets. I’m scared he\u2019s<\/span>
looking for a knife. However, I find comfort in his tone of voice, which is clearly friendly, and<\/span>
the British accent that he keeps inexplicably dropping into. Jack asks if he has anywhere to go or<\/span>
any friends who can take care of him. He mumbles something dismissive about his mom\u2019s place<\/span>
and asks us if we\u2019re students. We reply in the positive and he says sincerely, \u201cYeah that\u2019s a<\/span>
blessing man, it\u2019s a real blessing.\u201d There\u2019s something so earnest about him, so raw. Any<\/span>
inhibitions he had were clearly stripped from him hours ago. He\u2019s starting to enjoy our company<\/span>
now and he\u2019s speaking more enthusiastically. I can tell from his voice and body language that<\/span>
he\u2019s building to something big, even if I can\u2019t make out many of his slurred words. He turns to<\/span>
me suddenly and puts his hands on my chest; whatever he\u2019s about to tell me demands my<\/span>
absolute, undivided attention. He\u2019s looking directly into my eyes, and for the first time I get a<\/span>
good look at his. They\u2019re wide and crazed looking, dark irises drowning in an ocean of sclera. He<\/span>
leans in close, pauses for dramatic effect, then triumphantly proclaims, \u201cBlebbins!\u201d His<\/span>
declaration made, he presses himself off my chest and staggers backwards with the self-<\/span>
satisfaction of a swaggering stockbroker.<\/span><\/p>\n

I hear a police officer approach from behind and Jack pulls me out of the way. \u201cSir,<\/span>
please sit down on the bench!\u201d she shouts. The man is clearly confused, but he can tell that he\u2019s<\/span>
in trouble. He\u2019s still sifting through his pockets and the officer demands to know what for. \u201cFuck<\/span>
you bitch!\u201d he screams in retort, followed by a meek, \u201cI\u2019m sorry I didn\u2019t mean it.\u201d He tries to<\/span>
walk away only to spot another cop approaching from his flank. Upon seeing this, he turns and<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
begins sprinting back towards me and Jack. As he passes by he looks at us and says, \u201cCome on<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n

guys, let\u2019s go!\u201d before vaulting over a bench and running towards the Honors dorm. His mad<\/span>
dash is brought to a sudden end when he trips and is quickly held to the cold ground by three<\/span>
police officers. They keep him down for at least two minutes. He\u2019s shouting and thrashing on the<\/span>
frigid pavement, and the cops are returning his verbal abuse in kind. Finally, they drag him to his<\/span>
feet and throw him in the back of their cruiser. I watch as they drive him off to who-knows-<\/span>
where, his muffled objections trailing off into the bitter night.<\/span><\/p>\n

We return to our dorm around 1 a.m. and I head straight back to bed. But I can\u2019t sleep. I<\/span>
can\u2019t stop thinking about the last thing he said to us, \u201cCome on guys, let\u2019s go!\u201d He spoke the way<\/span>
a child would talk to their friends. Did he really think of us as his friends? How desperate for<\/span>
connection would you have to be to think that strangers you\u2019d known for all of three minutes<\/span>
would be willing to run from the cops with you? I keep trying to picture what could\u2019ve gone so<\/span>
wrong in his life that would lead him to the back of that cruiser. He didn\u2019t seem to have any<\/span>
friends, only an illicit chemical companion to keep him company. Did he feel betrayed that we<\/span>
didn\u2019t follow him? Was he sitting in a padded cell somewhere cursing me and Jack for not<\/span>
following him? I wrestle with my blankets and these thoughts for hours, until Morpheus finally<\/span>
comes for me, and the soft oblivion wins out, just like it always does.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

  <\/p>\n

\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t
<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t
\n\t\t\tMatthias Glass is a hobbyist writer and student at Northern Arizona University. His work has been published in the Palouse Review.\n\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t<\/div> <\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0It\u2019s a freezing February night and I\u2019m at my friend\u2019s dorm. In contrast to the twenty-degree weather outside, the room is warm with body heat. My friend group is gathered for amovie night and we sit snuggled in blankets or in the arms of significant others. During thecourse of \u201cExtremely Wicked, Shockingly […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":6298,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[318,319],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6297"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6297"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6297\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6687,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6297\/revisions\/6687"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/6298"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6297"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6297"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/projects.sjf.edu\/angles\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6297"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}