Chapter 5

Alex saved my life. A hundred reasons could be given for why we became friends, a thousand tales told, but we would forever be brothers for no other reason than that.

1998

I came to on the steps of a subway station platform in a haze, mildly conscious, Alex hovering over me with his hand on my shoulder, shaking me, gently encouraging me to wake up. The details were a blur even then. It had to be close to six o'clock in the morning, but it was Sunday. The station might as well have been abandoned, left to the junkies and rats.

"You alive, white boy?" There was a curious quality to his voice, guarded but inquisitive. Spanish Harlem rode heavy on his words. Were they words? The disjointed syllables echoed through my brain, riding the folds like a roller coaster, uninhibited.

My head. God, it was pounding, the leftover effects of partying too hard. Not-so-distant memories of quaking bass and flashing lights still punched at my gut and clawed at my eyes, the crash and crawl of the comedown crippling me as the drugs attempted to vacate my system. I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't awake. I wasn't dead, but I didn't think I was alive either. Not all the way. My inability to respond, to speak, to clearly make out what was going on around me made me feel like I was caught somewhere between this life and my next one.

The Ecstasy had hit me hard. I hadn't needed anything else, but the people I was with were out to party. Most of the illegal raves were being shut down before they started at that point. Some of the clubs were throwing decent events, but the vibe was different than the warehouse parties, the parties that just appeared out of nowhere, that were rigged up and torn down in the span of twelve hours. The parties that gave life to forgotten spaces, like ghosts, like the Kool-Aid Man crashing through a wall to bring a ruckus. The parties that didn't have an address until the last minute. A rave was there one night and gone the next, like the wind. The clubs were legal, technically. They would be there the following weekend, probably.

Secrecy didn't pervade the minds of club kids. They went out with a bang, with fireworks shooting from their ears. There was kinship, but it was different. The shared ethos of the raves, the elemental community, that was part of what made them special. They'd mostly disappeared, but a proper one-off could still be found in a warehouse in some industrial neighborhood of Brooklyn or Queens if one knew where to look. And fortunately, I did.

I don't even remember who was spinning that night, the night Alex saved me from myself. Maybe Micro? The music was intense and manic, with hard kicks, heavy bass, and reverberating vocal bits—at least, that's what it sounded like to me in my chemically induced state. There was something deep about it, warring and brutal. It was techno and trance and acid and breaks, this dark and spacey combination of sounds that kind of came down on top of you, beating you into the floor before it lifted you back up and spilled you out onto this higher, otherworldly plane.

Over two thousand people crowded into that dilapidated warehouse, only enough space between bodies to turn around. Bump after bump of coke, ketamine, and fuck knows what else went up my nose as I rolled and danced and rolled with my friends, with strangers that could easily become friends. The walls seemed slick with sweat, a heady cloud of weed smoke occasionally floating overhead.

The last thing I remember were the melodic synths and resounding vocals, fading and echoing. Too much, maybe. They seemed to perforate the speakers like laser beams, exposing a hidden world above, just beyond the harsh reality we'd been forced to inhabit. I was lifted from the dirty floor and floated on my back high above the heads of those around me, almost like being beamed up to a spaceship. All at once, everything and nothing made sense. Words didn't matter. They weren't real. Those howling synths elevated me to a lighter, easier space, gently rolling me around in the clouds, my arms and legs and body floating for seconds that stretched into minutes, minutes that felt like hours before being ruthlessly kicked back to earth. The dense, unforgiving thud of the beat dropped back in, bounced off the walls, made the revelers next to me thrash around with abandon.

No one else seemed to have seen what I saw: the white clouds, the blue sky, a lucid vision of heaven open up around us. A warmth washed over me, flooding my insides. My heart began to race. So quickly. Too quickly. It felt like it could beat out of my chest. And then, darkness.

There was a sound in the distance that I could barely make out as I lay there on those steps, my legs twisted beneath me and that outline of a body hovering above, this sort of deep, progressive rumble and some intermittent squeaks getting louder by the second. It sounded familiar, like I had been there before, like I could almost figure it out if I could just clear out a pathway in my brain. The rumble grew aggressive, the squeaks more insistent. Maybe an approaching train. Could that be it? Everything was kind of blurry, lines and shadows chasing after the few shapes I could make out in front of me. A strong wind gust—hot—smacked my face as the advancing train pushed trapped air through the tunnel and into the station, the brakes of the cars screeching loudly.

Too loudly. Please stop. Make the shapes stop moving.

Multiple sets of stainless-steel doors flung open at the same time, cueing the "bing" that anyone who'd ever called themselves a New Yorker would recognize even in the deepest of slumbers.

That must be the train I need, the one I was waiting for.

My muddied brain attempted communication with my body. I tried lifting myself from the stairs but stumbled, my sweaty palm slipping from the cold concrete, my elbow bashing roughly against the edge of the step. I wasn't sure if I'd stood up or not. Had I managed consciousness? Had I moved at all?

"125th. Bronx-bound 4 train. Next stop, 138th-Grand Concourse," the blaring, distorted voice that radiated from the train car intercoms forced gruffly without pause or clarification. One had to be an expert in deciphering code to successfully understand what train conductors garbled over those intercoms.

"This your train?" my new friend asked, motioning toward the open door.

How should I know? But it was a train, and I needed to go. Somewhere. Any other time, I could have navigated the underground tunnels of the city with my eyes shut. But at that moment, I was lost. I couldn't focus on anything. Buzzing lights and shapes rushed by me as the dark outline of the person in front of me magically stood still. The edges danced though. Menacing crooked lines and triangles fidgeted around the stillness.

"Nah," I managed, my head feeling heavy on my neck. I don't know what I was trying to say, but I'm glad that's what came out.

"Which train are you waiting for?" the hovering presence once again tried to clarify. It was a person standing in front of me. I had figured that much out. But again, I couldn't answer. The questions were too much, too involved. Attempting a response felt like trying to work out the answer to an algebra problem in front of the entire class in tenth grade, and I fucking hated math. The figure wavered in front of me. I thought I heard a chuckle, but it could have been a curse. The person chanced another question, enunciating their words almost mockingly, "Where are you going?"

Nothing. I couldn't speak. Thoughts disappeared just as quickly as they emerged. The train doors slammed shut, opened again, then closed for good before an abrupt hiss forced the cars along the track and out of the station, the wheels aggressively scraping and rumbling against the steel beams below. The third rail would be hot, electrifying. A lucid thought. Then mush again. Everything turned to mush. Moments passed, maybe hours, and I felt arms wrap around my body, drawing me to my feet. My legs felt like rubber, but with a little support, I was able to stand. I was being helped through the station to the other end of the platform. The end with an escalator heading up.

In and out, I faded. In and out.

My arm was pulled over a shoulder. Someone's elbow draped around my waist. It helped to steady me. As the stranger helped me onto the escalator, they spoke. "It's not safe to hang out on the platform all night. I'll take you to my place, alright? It's just a couple of blocks away. You can sleep off whatever you're on there."

I heard the words, sounds that mimicked words, words that could have been sentences, but none of them stuck. I was the proverbial brick wall to which the stranger was speaking.

That afternoon, I woke up on a strange bed in a strange room, not remembering anything since I'd been dragged out of the subway station. Even that was blurry. Sprawled on top of the covers, fully dressed except for my sneakers, it took me a while to figure out what was happening, what had happened, where I was. It wasn't the first time I'd woken up in a stranger's apartment, the details of the night before not entirely clear, but typically, someone else was in bed with me. Not always proud moments, but familiar, understood. This was uncharted territory. My head pounded, and my eyes burned, but my senses had returned to normal.

The room I occupied was small, and the walls were painted white. A few nice frames with what appeared to be prints of the work of famous artists hung perfectly straight on the walls, complemented by a faux crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling above. A picture frame with a photo of a smiling, forty-something Puerto Rican woman sat on a simple but elegant dark oak desk along with a few textbooks and some pens and paper. Two notebooks were stacked on top of one another near the edge. A black messenger bag hung from the back of the chair pushed underneath the desk, an insignia on the front pocket reading FIT. I sat up and noticed how the parquet floor looked somewhat modern coupled with the duvet cover on the bed, not something easily accomplished in a contemporary space.

"Shit." I was startled by a shadow appearing on the doorframe, looming as the sound of bare feet on hardwood approached. I felt like I'd shouted, but honestly, it probably sounded more like a tired, lazy mumble.

A guy who appeared to be around my age appeared in the doorway, his voice familiar. "I was wondering when you were gonna wake up."

"What time is it?" I asked, groggy, confused.

"'Bout three."

My thumb and forefinger vacantly rubbed at my eyes and the bridge of my nose as I started to remember, "You helped me off the platform."

"You didn't know where you were, and you couldn't tell me where you lived, so I brought you here."

I stared at him with reserve as he rested against the doorframe with his arms crossed, a look of intrigue on his face. His caramel-hued skin and naturally lean, defined arms that deliberately protruded from the black tank top he wore popped against the white walls. His dark hair was cut short but had a delicate wave to it. Deep brown eyes peered into mine. Tall and thin like me but lankier, his limbs seemed to stretch forever, grow like branches from trees. Tight lips only a shade away from that of his flesh sat squarely above his prominent chin, complementing the rest of his angled features, sharp yet easy. Even in his definition, there was a softness about him. He was attractive. And he seemed nice, a trait that instantly extinguished any sexual interest I might have developed. From his knowing expression, I could immediately tell he'd experienced more in his life than his baby face let show.

"Sorry," I apologized, embarrassed by fragmented recollections of my actions the night before.

"Why?"

"Because you had to see me like that. Because you had to carry me home."

Had it not been for the meticulously kept room and the high-fashion art on his walls, he could have been straight. He had no distinguishing mannerisms that would have given him away, no telltale signs.

I continued. "Weren't you worried? You don't even know me."

"Hardly. You weren't in any condition to hurt me. Anyway, we were at the same party in LIC. I remembered seeing you there."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Ravers aren't really the type to cause trouble in my experience."

"I guess you don't know too many."

He laughed, "Maybe you're right."

I shifted myself on the bed to glance out the window. The partially obstructed view of the corner outside didn't provide much clarity into where I was. Prewar buildings with chipped-away brick and mortar and fire escapes lined the block. From that, I could gather nothing more than the fact that I was in New York City. But it could have been Brooklyn or Queens just as easily as Harlem. Hell, I could have been holed up in a tenement in Alphabet City, for all I knew. And I kind of wanted to know. I asked, "Where are we?"

"Manhattan. 128th and Fifth."

An audible sigh of relief escaped me. We were uptown. I wasn't that far from my own apartment. He must have noticed an ease set in around me, my features softening or shoulders relaxing.

"I take it you live uptown, then?"

"Yeah. On the west side. 149th and Convent."

"Sugar Hill, baby," he laughed. "So, you were heading in the right direction last night. You just ended up at the wrong station."

"Fuck, that's embarrassing," I sighed, gripping my forehead with the palm of my hand, rubbing my temples.

That made him laugh again. His laugh was chill. Cute, but controlled. He was a cool, confident figure. And clearly had a heart. "I'm Alex, by the way."

I looked up to acknowledge his introduction. "Brandon. And thanks… for rescuing me from myself."

"You want some coffee?" My new friend used his thumb to gesture toward what I assumed was the front door.

"Please."

I peed and rinsed my cotton mouth with a swig of Alex's mouthwash before descending three flights of stairs while he told me about his roommate, who was also in design school. She had a boyfriend who lived downtown, and she crashed with him often, leaving Alex a two-bedroom apartment all to himself most nights. My baggy jeans and oversized, stretched-out, dirty white T-shirt announced to anyone that cared enough to notice that this was, indeed, a morning after of sorts.

We grabbed coffee and breakfast sandwiches at a bodega on the corner, our first real moment of bonding as we were in fervent agreement that a hot breakfast sandwich from the deli could and should be consumed at any time of day. Our cheap meal was taken to go, and we chatted—awkwardly at times, as conversations with perfect strangers sometimes go—casually walking along a slowly gentrifying, tree-lined street in Harlem, zigzagging to avoid the projects. Salsa and reggaeton music wafted from apartment windows, boom boxes in courtyards, and cars parked at the curb, windows down, doors open, surrounded by people resting on milk crates, rolling joints, and swigging from bottles in brown paper bags.

"What were you on last night anyway?" Alex asked before we arrived at an entrance to St. Nicholas Park. It wasn't a prying question. He was just making conversation. But it was a question nonetheless, one I wasn't sure I could answer.

"To be honest, I don't know. E, coke, probably a little K. What about you?"

"What do you mean?" His response was honest, almost virtuous.

Laughing, I pushed a little harder. "We were at the same party, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, I was at the Roxy with some friends, and we heard about this underground thing out in Queens, and we kinda ended up there. I took a Mitsi around midnight, but that was it. I don't really party that much."

"Really?"

"Nah. I used to party a lot, but a friend of mine overdosed a while back. Kinda scared me." He paused to refocus before continuing his innocent interrogation. "Were you drinking?"

"Mostly water, but yeah. My friends and me, we smoked a joint and had a few beers before we went out."

That much I could be sure of. We always did.

"So you were out with your friends, and they let you go home by yourself, all fucked up like that?" he rattled off, a tapestry of surprise and disgust woven into his tone.

I chuckled, amused at his concern for a perfect stranger. "They probably didn't even know I left. I tend to duck out of parties without saying goodbye when I'm high."

"Ah, I see," he realized. "I know your type."

Another pause snuck its way in as we tore back the foil wrappers on our sandwiches. Steam escaped the shiny, metallic barriers, visible even in the daylight. I sipped my coffee, which was still far too hot to drink, and suddenly realized our steps were leading us toward my apartment and in the opposite direction of Alex's.

"You walkin' me home or something?" I bit into my sandwich, scrambled egg, melted cheese, and kaiser roll, muffling my words.

"I gotta make sure you get there this time, don't I?" he teased.

"That's like thirty blocks. We're still like a mile away."

"So what? It's a nice day. And you'll owe me for my good deed."

I couldn't help but laugh. Yeah, it was a nice day. The sun was shining, and with the breeze, the temperature was that perfect balance of warm and cool, the humidity barely measurable. But Alex's generosity and goodwill was not something I was used to. I'd been taking care of myself and myself alone since I left Long Island and moved to the city for college, unwilling to ask my folks for help. And even before that. I financed my way through high school as a kennel attendant at a vet's office, occasionally selling pills on the side to pay for train fare or gas money and Ecstasy and what little food I survived on when my desire to party finally became stronger than my desire to not be grounded.

How many times had I snuck out of the house when I was younger to meet up with my friends, hitting up a random party in the city? Crashing at a friend's house or some flop apartment belonging to a friend of a friend that somebody somehow knew became common. The kind of place a bunch of kids would end up listening to music, coming down from their highs, and watching the sun rise after a long night out.

"Deal." I sipped my coffee as Alex and I climbed the graffitied steps in the park to reach the other side, replaying the events of the previous night. As much as we could remember anyway. I felt the need to return the favor. "You like Banana?"

"Like the fruit?"

"Nah," I laughed. "The store. I'm a manager there."

"Oh," he chuckled. "Yeah, I kinda like that preppy look. That shit's expensive, right?"

"I'll hook you up with my discount."

"You'd do that?" Surprise drew a half-smile to his lips.

"Yeah. I mean, it's kinda the least I could do."

"True," he waxed sarcastically. "I did save your life."

I shoved into him with my elbow—a playful gesture meant to mask my embarrassment, accidentally nudging him off the concrete and into a tree, the trunk covered with ivy, overgrown brush spilling out in every direction at the root, empty cups and bottles littering the ground below.

"Hey!" he shouted, laughing as he recovered from the stumble, swatting me in the arm with his fist, a splash of hot coffee jumping through the opening of the flimsy plastic lid and falling to the ground, messing my fingers in the process.

"Okay, okay," I surrendered, wiping my hand on my jeans. "Dinner. This week. On me."

"You got it," he agreed.

No concrete plans were made, though we did exchange phone numbers using the preferred method of the time—a ballpoint pen and the flesh on the palm of one's upturned hand. There was a sweet casualness that lingered between the two of us, making me wonder if we would end up dating at some point. But the minacious expectation that usually hovered over impending relationships never surfaced. We were attracted to one another without a physical need, without the desire for something more.

When we finally approached the door to my building, I tossed my empty coffee cup into the dented metal trash can on the corner and tried to fish my keys from my pocket, thanking Alex again for dragging me back to his place. We parted ways with a fist bump, and he started back toward the park, making it halfway down the block before turning around and calling out, "Hey, white boy!"

"Yeah?" I responded, still fumbling with my keys.

"You call me next time you're going out. I'll make sure you don't end up passed out on a subway platform."

I smiled, playfully hanging my head in shame. "Deal."

After that frightening, fortuitous night, that brush with rock bottom, Alex and I were rarely seen out without each other. He was my moral compass in those days, effectively cutting me off when I'd done too much. I suppose he still is. He liked to party as much as I did, but he was better able to keep his wits about him. When the music was on point and we felt good and I'd turn to hit the bathroom to take another bump, Alex grabbed my arm, pulling me back to keep me dancing. It was his way of keeping me safe, sheltering me with music and movement.

Once, he told me he saw something in me that was too special to waste. He didn't want to see me spin out of control and end up dead before I realized my potential. I don't know why, but I believed him when he said stuff like that.

I kept him clothed in discounted threads, and he kept me grounded, tethered to a planet I wasn't sure wanted me. A mutual respect grew between us as we got to know each other, a bond that we share to this day. Alex became the brother I never had, the father figure that supported me and loved me and called me on my shit when I needed him to. Grateful wasn't a big enough word for how I felt about him. Beholden seemed more fitting. Alex was necessary. He was irreplaceable.