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ages.
    You couldn’t believe your eyes.
    Piles of clothes. Scattered papers. Magazines. Empty cups & dishes.
    Pigsty.
    Worse than Ted.
    Alex was never NEAT, but he NEVER used to let things get this bad.
    You woke him up. He seemed surprised to see you. Then he apologized and slouched into the bathroom to get ready.
    You felt sorry for him, so you started to clean up.
    No big deal. A little pile management. Floor liberation.
    A jeans jacket was on the floor, scrunched by the foot of the bed, so you picked it up.
    And a bottle fell out.
    A fifth of vodka. Half empty.
    You bent down to pick it up.
    And you saw another one — totally empty — under his bed.
    You put the jacket back. With the bottle.
    Now what?
    You are freaked.
    Should you TELL him?
    Even though he wants you to LAY OFF?
    WHAT SHOULD YOU
    Alex, Part 2
    At the Monfort Quarry
    Between a Rock and a Hard Place
    Back again.
    Had to stop writing, because you heard the shower turning off. You’re alone here for a few minutes. Alex is off to the convenience mart to get some sports drink and trail gorp.
    You hope that’s ALL he’s getting. …
    You didn’t write that.
    BAD thing to say, Ducky, about your best friend.
    BUT YOU CAN’T HELP IT. How can you trust him now?
    You try to be close, open yourself up, you let him confide in you. You ask him what’s wrong —
    YOU GIVE HIM EVERY CHANCE TO TELL THE TRUTH. And he tells you nothing’s
    wrong, nothing CONCRETE, it’s depression, he’s dealing with it — when all along, that’s NOT
    it at all.
    He has a drinking problem.
    All you can think is, WHY DIDN’T I GUESS THIS? The slurry speech, the tiredness, the
    depression — it makes sense, because alcohol is a DEPRESSANT, isn’t it?
    Then he walks into his room, his hair still wet from the shower, and you’re sitting on the bed, arms folded like a guilty little kid who’s done something wrong.
    He’s groggy. Yawning. He looks around the room.
    “You cleaned up,” he says.
    “I’d forgotten what color the carpet is.”
    “You didn’t have to clean up. Things will just fall back into a mess.”
    His eyes fix on the jeans jacket.
    Out of the corner of your eye you see that the tip of the bottle is sticking out.
    STUPID. You were too rushed, too careless.
    “You found the bottles,” he says.
    But he sounds calm. Matter-of-fact.
    You stammer and sputter.
    “No big deal,” he says. “I’ve always had them around. Haven’t opened them for ages.”
    You don’t believe him for a minute.
    You didn’t talk about it on the way here.
    But you haven’t stopped thinking.
    Alex makes no sense. You don’t know him anymore. You don’t know what to expect.
    The possibilities?
    1. He WANTED you to find out. He knew that if you came to his house, he’d be asleep and you’d have to wake him up, and once you were in his room you’d see the bottles. It’s his way of crying for help.
    2. He didn’t mean for you to see them. In fact, today’s plan — the rock climbing — is to convince you he doesn’t have a problem anymore. He wants to fool you into thinking
    he’s getting better. Then you won’t BOTHER him so much.
    3. He IS getting better. He HASN’T touched the bottles in a long time. And he wants to go rock climbing.
    4. None of the above. Or parts of all.
    OK, nothing you can do now. Except CLIMB.
    Try to enjoy it. The way you used to. It’s the only athletic thing you and Alex were ever good at.
    Just make sure the ropes are secure and the pitons are tight.
    And TRUST him.
    You have to.
    The rocks are pretty steep.
    One false move, and you could be in serious trouble.
    Sunday Night
    Still Alive
    Alex comes back from the convenience mart.
    You load up the snacks and drinks. You double-check your Polaroid camera to make sure it has film.
    And you start up the rock.
    Right away you know this isn’t going to be easy.
    You’re worried — not about yourself but about Alex.
    You choose your handholds extra carefully. You jam your pitons extra