Walking on Stilts

My friend Sam stopped by today, reminding me once again of how difficult it is to watch someone you care about gradually deteriorate.

Thinner than ever, his arms hang loosely from his t shirt sleeves and his blue jeans don't even pretend to fit. His hair is uncombed. he needs a shave, and he walks with a stiff, inflexible gait, as of his legs were made of wood. His very face is misshapen, cheeks puffed up toward his eyes like a full mouthed chipmunk, jaw loose, making me think that his teeth don't fit very well. He chews gum with a vengeance and it impairs his already scattered speech, his eyes are little manic and he's restless, barely acknowledging the attentions of the dogs that he once loved. He skips from subject to subject and back again, his thoughts randomized and painfully cluttered.

He is moving, he tells me, and when I ask why, he launches on a bitter stream of invective about his landlord - the broken windows, the leaks in the roof, the backed up plumbing, the failed air conditioning unit - all unrepaired for years and then the final insult, yet another rent increase. He's had enough, he tells me, there's no reward for eight years of loyal renting, no justice in the world. He rambles on, eventually losing steam and his train of thought at the same time. The dogs whine and nudge him for attention - he has known them both since they were born - and he absently strokes them while asking me how I am but he doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, I hear of his latest new friends, of dinners out and evenings of wine and sunsets, of how many new young girls are begging to pose for him and how nudity, done right, is art. There is less and less of the friend I once had in him and when he gets up to leave I don't ask him to stay for supper as I would've once done, don't suggest we get together soon, don't tell him to keep in touch. This is a static-y stranger, a man at playing at contentment while at odds with the world.

He leaves, half lurching, half staggering down the steps toward the driveway, walking stilt-like and carefully, a scarecrow figure in rumpled, ill fitting clothing. He hadn't hugged me goodbye as he would've done once, didn't turn at the car for a final wave and a grin. I closed the front door quietly, feeling sad and relieved, hoping that he would not call again. It's too difficult to watch someone you once cared about deteriorate and turn into a stranger.