the life of the party


Sometimes it would be a call at 3 in the morning. No, not another ex-boyfriend with late-night meanderings in mind. Not at all. It was Julia.

With a tone of almost-ecstasy or unfathomable despair, my friend would relate her drama du jour as my half-asleep brain tried to process what she was saying. That she was “stranded” in a motel room in a bad area of town with a couple of guys she’d met in a bar earlier that evening. One wanted to tattoo her while the other wanted her to do a lot of coke. Neither one of them would let her go home. “I don’t know what to do,” she breathed. “I’m drunk and I’m so scared, Lisa.” And I could feel her terror, trembling in her voice and coming across loud and clear over the wire.

“Julia,” I said, thinking quickly, “I’ll call the cops. They’ll be there in no time.”

“Oh No,” she said. “Don’t do that. I’ll get in trouble because they have the coke.” OK, I said, still thinking. Then I’ll call you a cab. “No, no,” she whispered dramatically. “That will take too long. And I don’t have any money! Can’t you just come and get me?”

“Julia,” I said patiently. “I live 40 miles away. A cab can get there much more quickly than I can. Have the driver call me and I’ll give him a card number to pay for your ride. It will be fine, I promise.”

This goes on and on while I lie on the edge of my bed, clock in hand, thinking about how I have to get up for work in a few hours. And how insomniac-me will never get back to sleep. And how clearly, she’s not in any danger. She just wants a friend to join her for the party. No, seriously. That’s how she thinks.

But that’s the joy of Julia.

And if it wasn’t a 3 am phone call, it was a call hinting at suicide, or at least severe depression, at 2 in the afternoon. On more than one occasion, this resulted in my leaving work to race across town(s) to her house… Only to find her drinking margaritas and slumped over the kitchen table but ready to party.

“I can’t believe you left work for me. I love you!” she crowed. “And I’m going to change. Everything’s going to be different. Look,” she said, waving a hand engulfed by a cluster cocktail ring from Avon. “I’m engaged to Bobby!” Bobby, it turned out, was a paunchy ex-rocker with stringy hair and Motorhead t-shirt, who slinked down in the corner of the room looking wild-eyed at the thought of marriage.

She wanted to believe it so much, I felt obligated to say something in kind. “That’s great, Julia,” I forced a smile while Bobby edged his way out of the kitchen. “I’m really, really happy for you.”

And it was also worrying about her when she didn’t show up for classes for several days in a row in the year or two she attended college. I finally grabbed my boyfriend at the time and drove over to where she was living, a dingy apartment butted up against the aforementioned crummy motel. There we found her, naked and lying on the floor in a semi-comatose state. We dressed her and drove her to the hospital where she was pronounced malnourished, suffering from double pneumonia and as having some sort of immune deficiency. I was rewarded with a wan smile. “Thanks, Lisa. You’re always there for me. Don’t worry. I really learned my lesson this time.”

I think everyone has a friend like that. The life of the party. And something of a wash-out, all these years after the party’s over.

But, there’s always that feeling, at least for me, that I’ve got to do something to help these friends. I just have to. Julia was always that kind of friend for me. I just can’t turn my back on her, or on anyone in need. It’s just not in me.

Friends since high school we were, and Julia seemed like she had everything back then. Always had the newest, coolest car. The cutest clothes. She was smart, funny and popular. And she had the best ideas for where to go and what to do. Sneaking up on a penned-in lion in someone’s yard. Hanging over the monkey bridge and screeching at the ghostly whistle of a midnight train. Making even a humdrum trip to the mall exciting. She was just so much fun to be around. The one person who could make me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants, practically every time we were together.

But she didn’t have everything. In a lot of ways, she had nothing. Just a very, very sad childhood story. Mix it up with margaritas, meth and oxycontin, and there you have it: a life that was well worth living, but unrecognizable to the very person who was living that life.

The last time I saw her, she seemed so thin. So, so thin you could have snapped her in half. I wanted to hold her, and tell her that I would always be her friend. That she could always count on me. “Please eat something,” I begged instead, my eyes on her face. She just laughed and tossing her hair, walked out of the food court without ordering, while I stared blindly at the Ferris wheel.

We lost touch after that. Again. Because ever since she dropped out of college, she’s moved around a lot. Different men, different situations but always the same story: “I’m really getting my act together, Lisa. This time, I really am. I have a good job and whatever-his-name-was-that-month and I are getting married!” She always had to make that last-ditch attempt with me. To try and convince me that the old Julia was still there. Still a winner. Still on top.

Every time she called, I wanted to tell her that I knew it wasn’t true. I wanted to beg her to me be honest with me, so that I could try to help her. Promising her, like I always had in the past that I would hold her hand as she walked up the steps to rehab. Instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do, to allow her to save face:

“Congratulations, honey. I know it’s going to be perfect.”

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