Being the Nice Guy

  This was a mistake. Of that I have no doubt whatsoever as I sit at the bar, nursing a Coke. I can't drink tonight; I'm the designated driver, though I wouldn't drink regardless. I think I'm the only seventeen-year old I know who doesn't relish a glass or two of alcohol. I wish I hadn't come. I wish I'd get up and leave, but I honestly can't figure out how that'd really change anything. I hate being the only person with a driver's license in my circle of "friends"; it means I'm inevitably "invited" to this sort of crap, and they almost always find a way to make me come.
    They told me this time would be different. They told me there was this really great girl I just had to meet. The girl in question was escorted home about an hour ago, after her friends found her passed out in the bathroom with one of the guys from my school. The perfect girl, they'd said.
    Yeah right.
    I drain my glass and signal the bartender for another one. He gives me the refill and even tosses in a fresh lemon wedge. I thank him and take a swig. "You come to a party at a bar, but you don't drink," he comments. "Don't make sense to me." "Designated driver," I reply curtly, holding up my car keys. "Increasing my blood level probably isn't the smartest idea." "Guess not," he concedes before leaving to take care of someone at the other end of the bar who seems to be in danger of drowning in his spilled drink. I lift my glass to take another gulp.
    That's when I see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
    The mirror's cloudy and the room is dim, so I turn around to get a better look. It's her alright; it's Alex, the girl I've been in love with for the past four years. She knows it, too; you'd have to be a special kind of dense to go out with someone for nine months and have no idea how he feels about you. She sees me and a smile lights up her face, though I'm sure it's more under the influence of alcohol than any actual happiness at finding me here. She starts walking over. No, 'walk' is the wrong word; it's fairly obvious that she's had a few beers more than she can handle. " 'Ey Patty!" Yeah, she's hammered; she's slurring her words, and she hasn't called me Patty since before we broke up, a little over six months ago. Nonetheless, I smile in return. "Hey Alex." She finally reaches me and practically collapses into the bar stool next to mine. "What're you doing here?" Definitely been drinking; I can smell the liquor on her breath. That's not all I notice, though. Even in this less-than-ideal light, I can see her eyes well enough to tell that beer's not the only thing she's had tonight. She doesn't react when I reach over and push back her eyelid.
    "Your pupils are dilated. Alex, are you high?" To her credit, she doesn't try to deny it, though she does look away. I shake my head, grab her arm, and haul her outside to the parking lot. Again, she doesn't resist. "What did you take?" I ask her once we're alone under a street lamp. "How much?" "One pill," she replies softly, not meeting my eyes. "We're leaving," I tell her, taking out my keys and pulling her in the direction of my car.
    She shouts "No!" and shakes off my hand. Somehow I was expecting this. "I'm not leaving! And what do you care if I took drugs? I don't see you dragging your other friends out here and yelling at them!" "Number one, I'm not yelling at you. Number two, I don't care that my so-called friends are narcotic-riddled morons." "Then why do you care if I--" "You know that just as well as I do." That shuts her up, at least temporarily. I reach for her arm again, but she pulls away.
    "I don't want you to care." It comes in the tone of voice you'd expect from a pouting four-year old. "Yeah, well, I don't want me to care either." "Seriously, why the hell do you even care?!" She's starting to shout. "You've got too much going for you to throw it all away, Alex," I reply, keeping my voice calm. "What the hell does it matter to you if I screw my life up?! It's not your life, you're not affected by it--" "Because you're obviously in no shape to look after your own damn best interests," I yell back, starting to lose control. "You've let yourself fall so far that you don't even know which way to get out." She's got tears in her eyes, so I struggle to get my voice back down. "I want to help you, Alex. I don't want anything in return. I just want you to take it." I hold out my hand again. After a few moments' hesitation, she grasps it and lets me lead her to my car.
    "Are you taking me home?" she asks once we've started driving. "No," I answer, not looking at her. "I doubt it'd be a good idea for your parents to see you like this." After a minute of awkward silence, she murmurs "Thank you." "No problem. Wanted to get out of there anyway." The idiots who I was supposed to drive were almost completely forgotten by now. "I wish I had more friends like you," she says softly. "So do I," I say. "Could sure use one right now." "I'm not a very good friend, am I?" "You were a better girlfriend." "Still not a very good one." I hate how miserable she sounds, so I reach over and squeeze her shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up. You were a great girlfriend." "But you were a better boyfriend. You're better than me at everything." I can't help but laugh. "You're a straight-A student, a varsity swimmer, and student council vice president. I've never gotten so much as a B+, I hate sports, and I abstained from voting during the last three elections, Alex. I have no idea how you figure that I'm better than you at anything." "Come on, Patrick, we both know you're smarter than me. You're smarter than me, you're funnier, you're more charming, you're nicer, you're sweeter, you're...you're..." And she breaks into tears. I have no idea what to do now other than rub her back as she bends over in her seat, weeping into her hands. Landing in awkward social situations is something I have a knack for; escaping them is where I constantly screw up. I decide to stay silent and let her pour it out.
    I pull the car into a McDonald's parking lot. I don't know much about dealing with drunken drugged-up 16-year olds, but I'm sure some warm food will do her some good. Thank God for 24-hours-a-day service; at one in the morning, I have no idea where else to get a meal. She's stopped crying by this point, but she looks like a mess; her makeup's smudged, and her mascara's running down her cheeks with her tears. In spite of this, I can't help but think how pretty she still is. It's ridiculous. We must make an odd couple as I lead her up to the counter, one arm around her shoulders. I look exactly the same as four hours ago, but she looks like I hauled her from a rave gone wrong, though as far as I'm concerned, raves don't need to go too far to go wrong.
    The cashier tries not to notice Alex's less-than-presentable state. "Good morning sir, ma'am. What can I get you?" "Um, one cheeseburger meal for her," I say, scanning the menu, "and I'll have a Quarter Pounder meal, large fries and Coke for both." "That for here or to go?" "For here." Alex is remarkably silent, though I can feel the occasional silent sob. I pull out my wallet to pay for the meal, then I ask her if she could get us a table, no big job since there's next to no one in the restaurant. She gives a small nod and walks off. "Bad date?" the counter guy asks as he punches in the order. "Not for me," I reply, keeping my eye on where Alex takes a seat by the window. She's just staring at her hands, not even bothering to wipe her face. The food comes, and I carry the tray over to the table. "You okay?" I ask as I sit down. She nods, still not looking up. At least she's stopped crying. I take out my handkerchief and offer it to her. "Why don't you go get cleaned up? No offense, but you look like you lost a fight with a mad makeup artist." She gives what may have been a chuckle and takes the hanky, then gets up and heads for the bathroom.
    I have no idea what I'm doing here. I'm sitting in a fast food joint at ten past one in the morning trying to deal with my emotionally distraught ex-girlfriend. As far as social interactions go, this is right down there with being stuck in a broken elevator with your pregnant math teacher. Not that I've had to experience that. Alex comes back after about five minutes. She's managed to wash most of the makeup off, and she certainly looks better than she did. "Sorry about the hanky," she says, holding it out. It's smeared black and pink. I had no idea how much stuff she put on her face until now. I take it and stuff it into my back pocket. "Don't worry about it."
    She starts crying again halfway through the meal. "This is what I want," she sobs. "I just want a friend who'll be nice to me and buy me a burger instead of making me go to those stupid parties." Again, I have no clue what to say, so I just let her go on. "I want a friend who'll tell me it's going to be alright and say that I'm not a failure and--and--and--and I just want a friend," she whimpers. It takes me a surprisingly long time to figure out the right response:
    "You have one."
    She just smiles and nods, once.
    It was enough.