Me and Escape, or Escape and I
Escape and I are tight, like the best of friends from way back when. We haven’t given up old habits, either, like beating the shit out of each other in the sandbox—and over what was it? Who remembers. But I do remember this: In the end, it was always one of us getting our wrists squeezed tight, and then these words were spoken: “Don’t you say one thing. Not one.” We’ve never betrayed each other, not in all this time. You don’t turn your back on friends like this.
And because of my loyalty, I’m good at escape. I’m fast to find the exit doors or a break in conversation, and knowing when not good enough is really not fucking good enough anymore. I know when to close doors and how fast to close them. I know the right words to say and when to say them, the non-verbal cues, the everything. It’s a package deal, but it’s one that isn’t free or easy. It’s one you have to earn, understand all the ins and outs of. Escape isn’t friends with just anybody.
Some people run their mouths off and talk big, make threats. Others do the opposite. They just suck it up and ride it out—take a pill, take a drink—not even thinking to look past what they know, to see what else is there for the taking. Others burn bridges with fires so big and ferocious, it’s, like, seven-, eight-alarm action—a total mess, with lives destroyed.
This isn’t the way to play with Escape. I mean, it is, but that’s not the way to form quality friendship.
First, you need to be willing to take some punches. It’s not pretty, I know, and it hurts, and there’s blood, and there’s bruises.
Second, keep your mouth shut. For chrissakes, just keep it fucking shut—no matter how hard it is.
Third, if you accomplish steps one and two, Escape will show you what it means.
Or maybe I’m just speaking for me. Maybe our relationship is different than others. Still, though, Escape and me? We are like this.