Dramatic Child Stars

Twenty-Three

Ryland,
July 27, 2021,
5:34 pm.

I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking that I don't give a shit about how bad this all makes me look. I'm aware that a few major mistakes have been made on my behalf lately. I get that I'm floundering. I'm very aware of all of it. That's kind of the worst part.

Am I supposed to just admit I'm an addict now? Isn't it kind of time for that? Denial isn't cute anymore.

Maybe?

Yeah, no. This is just a hobby of mine. I'm just enthusiastic about it. Let's pretend we're all content to leave it at that. It's not like it changes anything at this point.

Basil got me the pills I wanted, or some variation at the very least. I don't know where or how they procured them. They just set me on a park bench next to a playground and returned 37 minutes later with a small bag. We walked home together.

Basil never even asked me for money, which I found odd given that Basil wasn't wealthy by any means. It was one of the things that had drawn me to them in the first place. Basils house was owned by their grandfather who now lived in a special needs home due to some type of memory disease. Basils grandfather didn't like them very much. Basil always told me that they had philosophical differences, but they were the only living family he had and so Basil was the default caretaker of the house. Basil wasn't in the will and would lose the home eventually because the will was made explicitly to dissolve their grandfathers assets when he died. Basil sold candles, stones, beads, and weed and sometimes a little extra substance on the side for their money. They worked hard for what they had. They were creative and scrappy and completely unwilling to touch any of their grandfathers wealth with the exception of living in the home. That meant that on especially tough weeks, I'd watched Basil count change to buy candle wax. That's why Basil always hemmed and repaired their own clothes, and why they never left a single light on in the home if it could be avoided. Candles were more than a hobby, career or passion. They provided respite from the dark as well.

They were not the most financially stable person in the world, whereas I had everything handed to me as if I were a standing example of privilege. I had the royalties from the sitcom and the movie. I had lawsuit money. I even had an odd corner of wealth resulting from an investment in some stupid car startup brand when I was a teenager. I thought the cars looked cool. I didn't expect it to take off. These things meant I was living comfortably from basically no effort of my own since leaving Los Angeles. Even Percy had to work some, but not me.

In the context of all of that I did try to give Basil money before they left, but they just told me to keep it.

"I don't want your money darling," Basil said, and there was touch of sadness there. "I'd feel worse about it if I let you pay for it too."

Basil returned and handed me a plastic bag. The pills were small, white and circular. Just by looking I knew they were 10 milligram oxycodone tablets and I was so annoyed by the dosage that I visibly scowled. Basil smiled and patted me on the shoulder in a very mocking sympathetic way.

"Desperation makes your cloud heavier," Basil informed me. "Sometimes it's about making do with what you have."

I took five. To Basil's credit, there were plenty enough in the bag for splurging like that. I really truly wanted to be annoyed. Then I recalled the way Basil had politely saved my life the night before, and I couldn't truly hold a grudge like that. Basil was probably afraid. Basil probably went out of their way to make a repeat of that moment incredibly difficult. Unlikely, at the very least.

Did Basil know I did that accidentally on purpose?

We walked home in oddly comfortable silence. Every once in a while Basil would start humming as we went. I liked how it sounded. It was low and rough and somehow equally as delicate and it filled the space of the early evening streets well.