My Friend Thomas
“Thomas, wake up,” I say.
He groans but remains still. I’ve just found him curled up in the foetal position in the park.
“Get up, Thomas. People are staring, they think you’re a tramp.”
“OK, OK, just give me a minute.”
“You can’t carry on like this. I’m surprised the police didn’t pick you up again.”
“It was…”
“I know whose fault it was,” I cut in, “But you’re not entirely blameless. You could stand up to him, you know.”
“It always seems like a good idea at the time.”
He sounds as pathetic as he looks. His t-shirt is covered in wet grass cuttings, one of his shoes is missing, his glasses are unhooked from one ear and completely skew-whiff across his face. It might be comical if it weren’t so tragic.
As pissed off as I am, I can’t help but worry about him. I never know what state I will find him in, but it’s impossible for me to stick around every night and babysit him. He’s a grown man, he needs to start taking responsibility for himself.
Slowly, he drags himself to his feet, much like a toddler would. His arms and legs are spread wide as he tests his balance before finally taking a first step. He adjusts his glasses and we take off in the direction of home, zigzagging a path through the morning. I say nothing, knowing how shit he feels is a small consolation. I’ll wait until later to talk to him properly.
Once we get home, I leave him to take a bath and sleep for a few hours. I rest and think about what I’ll say to him later, wondering how many different ways I can say the same thing.
He hasn’t always been like this, not as bad anyway. He struggled a lot after his parents died, and being an only child, there wasn’t really anyone to look out for him. Social Services do what they can, as do I, but ultimately it’s down to Thomas. He’s an adult now. Generally, throughout the day, he’s OK. He likes his job collecting trolleys at the supermarket. We meet up a few times throughout the day, mostly to and from work and sometimes for lunch. It’s good that I can check in on him, but once I’ve gone for the day, he’s at his most vulnerable. It angers me just thinking about it. I need to talk to him again, now.
“Thomas, come on, wake up,” I tell him, for the second time today.
He sits up in bed and rubs his eyes before reaching for his glasses.
“You won’t sleep tonight if you sleep any more. Come on, take your pills and let’s go out.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere, it’s Saturday.”
“Please,” I beg, knowing I’ll be stronger outside on neutral ground. “It’ll do you good.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re outside. It’s a bright day, and I’m feeling good. Thomas, on the other hand, still looks and feels like shit.
“If you don’t want to feel like crap, then don’t drink.”
“I know, but…”
“But what? You’re a grown man, Thomas. I know you have your problems, but you’re not doing yourself any favours living like this: drinking every night, being late for work, feeling like shit every day. You could lose your job.”
Sometimes I wonder if I make things worse for him, just someone else telling him what to do.
“I want to stop, I really do.” He sounds sincere.
“So you keep saying, but you never do anything about it.”
“It’s not that easy. When you’re here, I’m OK. I know what you tell me is true. I will lose my job unless I stop. But when you’ve gone… and he comes, I just… I don’t know, I just can’t refuse him. He talks me into doing such stupid stuff.”
“I’d stay with you longer if I could, you know I would. But it’s not how things work.” I feel guilty, but the situation is out of my hands.
“I just wish…”
“I know, Thomas, I know.” We’ve both wished a million times for things to be different.
We sit in the park. I see Thomas glance over to the area where he woke up this morning, then drop his head down in shame. He’s a good man, but he needs to be stronger, take control of his life and not be pushed around. We stay there for hours, on the same bench. A few people walk by, but nobody joins us. Would you sit next to a crazy man, sitting by himself, talking to somebody that you can’t see?
Behind him, the sun drops from the sky, and I begin to weaken. Like the other shadows, I am thinner now, elongated. He stares down at me through sad eyes, knowing that I will be gone soon. I tell him again to be strong and that I’ll see him tomorrow. He begs me not to go, and I ache for him. The sun sets and I fade away for the day, leaving him once again at the mercy of his lamplight shadow. Already afraid of what state I will find him in tomorrow.
Photo by Yehor Tulinov on Unsplash