Louisville Magazine

MAR 2017

Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.

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comingfullcirlce.com 36 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 3.17 even though we were friends, we hadn't lived in the same city long enough to become truly close, and I was looking forward to settling into that. We got each other's numbers, and a few weeks later, when I moved into an apartment off Bardstown Road, he texted me one Sun- day — Wassup my brother? He said that he was off the next day and asked if I wanted to get drinks at 7: Hit me up beforehand, might like a ride. At 6:30 the next evening, I texted: Still need that ride? Yes Sir. He gave me his address in German- town, and in 15 minutes I texted again: 7:15 okay? Running late. I didn't hear back from him. e next text I sent was when I was parked outside his house: Here. Twenty minutes had passed between my last two texts, so I figured he'd be waiting outside. But he wasn't there. I got out and walked to the door. Euan's roommate, John, let me inside. He said he hadn't seen Euan but told me to check upstairs. I went up a staircase that twisted at a landing with three doors. John hadn't given me directions, but, somehow, I knew the door to the left was Euan's. It was ajar. My fingers pressed against it, and the door creaked open. In- side, the space was long and narrow, like a tunnel, divided into two rooms. e front was a kind of parlor, with a trunk like a pirate's chest shoved next to a table with chairs surrounding it. Books and records cluttered the shelves built into the wall that faced a nook of windows. is room was connected to another one, farther back. e only furniture was a bed. ere was a body in the bed. Euan's body. e musk of tobacco and weed hung in the air, but it was the first week of April, and through some open window soughed in a scent of mud and blossoms. As I moved through the dimness, I heard him snoring, face-down. He lay atop the rumpled sheets, still in jeans, and a shirt with a hole under the armpit. On the bedside table was a jug of bourbon about four-fifths full, and on the floor sat a re- cord player. e record that crackled atop it played "Angel from Montgomery." I stood above him. I pushed his shoul- der. "Euan," I said, shaking him. "Euan." I looked into his face. Here was the man who had taught me so much, and who, now, was destroying himself. Suddenly, I felt like unscrewing that jug and pouring out his bourbon all over him. He had that same responsibility we all have, to ourselves, and to the ones we love and who love us, to catch himself from diving downward. To cowboy up.

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