Letting Go in Twenty Minutes or Less

Do you hear that?
Do I hear what?
Come on baby, listen.
Listen to what? I don't hear anything.
It's the wizard. Wants me to talk to Jesus.
Fucking great. I'm just putting my buzz on and my lover's been smoking the shit again. Now, I'll have to go through the whole litany of why this can't possibly be real and remind him that he needs to eat, drink and sleep in order to function somewhat normally on so many drugs. Come on, Doors of Perception/Heaven and Hell, get with it dude.

I'm trying to be hard. I'm trying to be direct with him and talk him down, but he's so far up the tree he starts thinking I'm in on some conspiracy against him. For a moment, I let the phone drop away from my sweaty ear. It's summertime in Phoenix and the day brings with it a dry 115 degrees. There's nothing to do but sweat, douse yourself with water and sweat. Dry my ass. This is oppressive. What would be the feeling of tears falling down my face never happens, cause I'm dripping sweat as it is and I can't tell one thing from the other.

This was back in the day before caller ID, so I ask him,
Andrew, where are you?
If I tell you, you'll tell them.
Look. You're fucked up is all. I need to know where you are.
I can't tell you.
I can help you.
That's what they said you'd say.

And he hung up. It was the last time we spoke. For a few days I fretted, wondering about where he could be and what trouble he had found for himself. As an unfamiliar ache tore at my chest, I began to understand the concept of fully letting go. There was nothing I could do to save my lover. His parents found him in a closet at their house that day. Last I heard, he had gone to rehab, cleaned up and was promoting eclectic music and art events in the valley. Chances are he got out of the conversation with Jesus, too.