Nickelback

nickelback

For the next two days at work, Nancy avoided talking to me. I kept getting shivers down my spine as I continually heard the sound of the boy's body hitting the ceiling above my head. Throughout the hotel, everybody was talking and joking about the boy's suicide. I couldn't stand it, so I took it upon myself to ask all the managers to spread the word to keep conversations about the incident out of the open. They did, and people soon stopped talking. I was glad. I hated the idea of Nancy walking into the smoke room and hearing two housekeepers singing "I Believe I can Fly" and laughing. Still, every time I made eye contact with her, she quickly turned away.

The night after the boy's funeral, Nancy came to meet me for a drink at Doobie's. She apologized and explained that she was just confused. I apologized for stepping out of line. She needed to talk, and I had my whiskey. She cried again, but this time she didn't take my hand.

The next day, I went to visit my mother. I told her about the suicide, hoping that it would be proper enough explanation as to why I hadn't called her for a week. She understood, and they she told me all about how my cousin Joey had just gotten out of the hospital for a heroin overdose. He's nineteen. Oh, and another relative is HIV-positive. Everybody figures I'd be willing to talk to them, seeing how I live in the city and I know people who've been through this kind of thing. I didn't think it was the right time to tell her all of the reasons why I couldn't. I just left.