Trouble

“I wonder what socioeconomic class you have to be in to want and actually  own a sail boat.” 

Only he would ask an intellectually charged question, and breed it with the shallow and meaningless. That’s just how he is though. He uses his intelligence for the temporal and tedious. He shames social climbing, but desires to understand how, so one day, when he realizes he actually does care, he can climb that ladder like the rest of them. 

His life in the underground drug culture of our local community was catching up with him. His parents never liked him and didn’t really raise him. He raised himself along with his druggy friends, who now we’re leaving him, by death, by deals, or by disagreements. He was lonely, but would never say it. So as we watched sail boats on the lake, he could only pose that question to distract himself from the wafts and strays of his fraying life burning into ash and falling into dust. 

As he drove back to my apartment, he pointed out some drug hoses that I could avoid, talked some politics, and then dropped a few names of political figures whose rallies he attended. I hadn’t been paying enough attention to know who they were. 

He dropped me off. “Stay out of trouble.” I said as I got out. He made a face. Mumbled something. Then smiled and pulled away. He would try. I knew he would. 

He never really understood that trouble doesn’t always mean getting caught. 

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