Before the fall of the towers and after Cobain drew first, I lived a good life. Didn’t know it at the time, but I suppose we rarely do. I used to care about things like art, my career, my art career, myself in general, but not these days.

I sat naked under the covers watching him chop up a line of cocaine with his driver’s license. The maids bellowed from down the hall as he rolled up a twenty-dollar bill and inhaled the white powder from top to bottom in less than a second. He blinked his eyes and flipped back his hair, the long dreadlocks lightly slapping his tanned back. As the maids drew closer, he jumped up from the small wooden table and stood guard at the door, peering through the peephole until our DO NOT DISTURB sign worked its magic. He plopped back down, sipped his coffee and lit his first cigarette of the morning. I knew things were bad. When he snorted before smoking, I knew things had spiraled out of control again.

Our hotel room left a lot to be desired, but the location was supreme. Location, location, location – even after death, it’s all about location. We arrived the night before, sneaking off after the band finished its last set and driving about an hour or so out to the coast. He said he needed to get away. I figured he meant from his wife. Even though he’d only been in town for a few days, I assumed Lisa had already started wearing thin, but I didn’t bring her up. Why the hell would I? The sound of the ocean had long since relaxed into background noise, though noise is probably the wrong word. I imagine waves crashing against the shoreline is an ongoing melody in heaven, but my kind isn’t welcomed in such lofty places. My kind, I don’t even know what that means anymore.

The dim hotel lamp flickered when the air turned on. I reached for my cigarettes on the crowded nightstand, searching behind two clear plastic cups, an empty bottle of whiskey and an overflowing ashtray until I found my lighter hidden under Michael’s purple beanie. I think he owned a hat for every day of the year. We sat silent in the room, not an uncomfortable silence, but more of a contemplative where do we go from here, silence, which was always the case the morning after. I sank deeper into the covers and watched the seagulls gather on the balcony picking through our late-night peanut fest. We devoured an entire bag of the lightly salted snacks before collapsing into bed together.

Michael was home to me. Since the days of turning tricks together down on Montrose in downtown Houston, Michael would always feel like home. We’d been best friends since childhood, both just thirteen when we met, and both homeless and street bound. I couldn’t have survived without him, and although he also claimed the same, I’m pretty sure he would have been fine without me. Michael was always the strong one. The outgoing leader to whom everyone flocked, the jokester, the charismatic rebel with a penchant for trouble – Michael could have charmed the devil himself. I was the tragically shy sidekick with a pessimistic and altogether cynical view of the world. Michael was the people person. I hated people. Still do. High school seemed like a footnote in our childhood, barely worth mentioning except for the fact that that’s where he met Lisa, the bubble-headed, big-breasted, blonde bimbo of a cheerleader. They married right out of high school, and I, of course, played the part of Best Man, which was truer than Lisa knew at the time.

I grew up in Houston at a Catholic-owned orphanage run by nuns. My parents are a mystery to me (in more ways than one), and much like the Johnny Cash song, A Boy Named Sue, I’d kill them both if I ever tracked them down. Before deciding they didn’t want me, they named me Ashley, perhaps failing to check and see if I possessed the correct anatomy for such a name. Then again, I suppose it could have been the nuns. Drunk on sacramental wine and privy to my future escapades, perhaps the penguins needed a good laugh for the day. After being sent to yet another foster home, where rumors of child pornography surfaced among fellow orphans, I took my chances on the streets. Michael came to my rescue a few days later. He appeared just in the nick of time, just like he always did, just like clockwork. I often called him my guardian angel, like the archangel Michael, the protector, the leader of God’s army who defeats Satan in the end, that’s who Michael signified to me. I saw him as my mother, my father, my brother, my best friend, and of course, my lover.

Our getaway trip to the coast came after three months of separation, and while that may not sound like a long time, it was the longest stretch we’d ever spent apart. Michael’s band finally got a break from touring, and I was between frequent trips to New York where I owned an art gallery. I waited backstage for the last encore to run its course and thanked my lucky stars that Lisa opted to stay home that night. The minute I saw Michael, I knew he was using again. It’s almost a prerequisite to be a drug addict when you’re a famous rock star, but his habit started well before Limbo Diver struck in rich with a record deal. Michael and I both developed a liking for heroin while living on the streets, but for the most part, I managed to steer clear of that poison since my early twenties. Michael, admittedly, never fully committed to the idea of giving it up. His condition that night alarmed me. It’s not that he looked strung out or sick, but his willingness to partake in anything put before him was the sort of reckless behavior we practiced on the streets. Thirty lurked right around the corner for both of us, and although I knew he remained a recreational user of hard drugs, I was concerned to see him go at it with such gusto. Michael knew his limit, and he almost reached it within fifteen minutes of being backstage.

I watched him from the other side of the room, waiting for him to finish his rounds before making his way over to me. Wide-eyed and fidgety, he slammed another shot of whiskey before insisting I drive out to the island with him. Galveston reminded me way too much of New Orleans, but I agreed to go. I could never tell him no, though I should have a number of times. Michael hailed from New Orleans, half white, half black, and half something else, he had the beautiful light caramel complexion that’s so prevalent in the Creole culture, but he never talked too much about his family. He sometimes provided a glimpse into a dark and abusive past, but Michael rarely spoke about the demons he fled from as a child. My dislike for New Orleans stems from a series of bad experiences involving Michael and those demons, but as for the city itself, I suppose it’s tolerable.

We booked a room at a not-so-swank hotel by the seawall and phoned a cab to drive us over to the strand, a popular street in Galveston that resembled a played-down version of Bourbon Street. Complete with bars, gift shops and starving artists peddling their mediocre works of art on the street, the strand churned my stomach just like any other tourist town. They had a way of confusing the rich with the poor so that everyone kind of melded together in a sad parody of each other, the homeless appearing trendy and cool with dirty twenty-something’s strumming guitars on the curb hoping for a handout, the rich stumbling around punch-drunk and destitute. I despised both. I enjoyed the beach though. I’ve always loved the beach. Even the brown waters of the Gulf managed to calm my hatred for the south, reminding me that despite my ever-growing reproach, I belonged in this shithole.

After hitting the bars for about an hour or so, Michael and I decided to walk the eight blocks back the hotel. We stopped along the way to admire the grand Victorian-style homes perfectly in line with the over-hanging oak trees. I could care less about the flamboyant mansions, but Michael stopped and lingered when we came upon the Bishop’s Palace, a three-storied chateauesque monstrosity with steep pointy roofs and multiple stained-glass windows. I waited by his side while he stared at the house in a trance. He moved in for a closer view and motioned for me to join him, holding his finger to his mouth when I attempted to speak. Cold chills spiked the hairs on my neck as I stood shoulder to shoulder with him peering at that old yellow mansion, not because of anything I saw lurking in the windows, but it was the look on his face. It was one of pure terror, like a child frozen with fear after watching his first slasher movie. He stood transfixed for about three minutes or so before shaking his head and laughing to himself. I asked what he saw but was met with glossy eyes and a confused expression as he turned to light a cigarette. When he turned around again, he tilted his head, arched his eyebrows and asked why we were still standing in front of “The Bastard’s Palace.” I laughed and led the way to the hotel.

By the time we made it back to the room, Michael’s strange behavior worsened. He puked twice before we even made it through the door, and as I helped him into the shower, he cowered away from the water and curled up into a ball at the far end of the bathtub. I rinsed him off, wrapped a towel around his waist and helped him into bed. I clicked on the television but had no interest in watching it, concerned for my friend as he lay next to me with the covers pulled up to his chin. My hero, my guardian angel, my anchor looked as exposed and as vulnerable as a sleeping infant nestled against me and dependent on my protection. I ran my fingers lightly across his forehead and attempted to count his long dark lashes. We stayed like that for about thirty minutes before Michael began mumbling in his sleep. I turned down the television and zeroed in on his words, but he spoke another language, fluent and fast, the French dialect rolled off his tongue with ease. His voice sounded younger, childlike, as the foreign words spilled through his lips with increased momentum. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his head thrashed from side to side as he whimpered, no, no, no, no, no. I tried to shake him awake, but his arms flew up over his head and pressed against the bed as if pinned down by some unseen force. His eyes shot open and I hovered over him, waiting for my friend to return, waiting for him to recognize my face.

We spent the rest of the night cracking peanuts on the balcony and chain-smoking. Michael finished off the whiskey bottle he took from the backstage party, and I restrained myself from being too much of a mother hen, though I insisted he drank every cup of water I put before him. He kept the conversation light, discussing the band’s current tour and dishing the dirt about the drummer’s numerous revenge affairs on his wife. Billy was, by far, the best damn drummer in the rock biz, but his marriage was in worse shape than Michael’s. I listened with amusement while he relayed his road stories to me with his animated, sensationalized twist. Michael always told the best stories, even if they were slightly fabricated. We didn’t talk about his nightmare or his excessive drug use and drinking. I knew better than to force the subject on him, well aware of his tendency to clam up whenever approached about anything too serious. I had to wait for the right time, besides, Michael was still in his towel. Three months had taken its toll, and though we tried to make it last, our early morning rendezvous was over within fifteen minutes.

I awoke to the sound of his driver’s license tapping the wooden table. We slept for less than four hours as I crawled out of bed and fumbled with the single cup coffeemaker on the hotel dresser. Michael whistled while I stood bare-assed waiting for the cheap brew to finish. The maids crept closer down the hall and Michael hurried to prepare his line, spouting out, “housekeeping,” at exactly the same time as the Mexican maids. I laughed and spilled my coffee as I crawled back into bed. We sat silent after the maids passed, the hum of the ocean drowned out by the rickety fan on the wall that gently rustled the thick brown curtains. I slammed the rest of my coffee and made my move.

“Things got weird last night,” I said, slipping on my shirt. Michael shook his head and crushed out his cigarette.

“Not now, Ash. I’m all tapped out. Lisa’s parents are in town, the tour’s kicking my ass,” he paused and lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and mouth set stiff on his face. “You know, we’re playing New Orleans next Saturday.”

I finished dressing and sat down across from him. “I’ll be there with bells on,” I replied.

He sniffled and nodded. “Beads,” he said. “You’ll be there with beads on.”

Not the right time. I’d have to go around him and talk to Billy.

We checked out of the room and killed some time on the beach before driving back into Houston. Seaweed covered the shoreline, and the salty gray air clogged my pores with a sticky residue, thick and suffocating, forcing my lungs to work overtime. With rolled up pants and his shoes dangling by his side, Michael gently kicked at the water as we walked down the shoreline. True to form, he kept the conversation light and maintained the upper hand, but as the coke wore off and his hangover set in, I went in for round two.

“We need to talk about last night,” I said.

He kicked water onto my pants leg.

“You were speaking French again. I heard you say his name.”

Michael threw down his shoes and stood nose to nose with me. I laughed and stumbled off balance, but he grabbed the back of my neck, grazed his lips across my cheek, and then lingered on my mouth. We enjoyed a long kiss, not something we usually did in public, and afterwards he slipped off his shirt and splashed through the water, diving into the waves when he reached waist deep. I stood alone on the shoreline. I’ll have to talk to Billy, I thought, and then rescued his shirt from the sand.