chapter 1

“Hey, man, get down!”

“Dude, don’t be an idiot!”
It’s my thicks calling to me. They’re standing just off the
bridge, in the little park with the totem pole. The one that looks
out over Elliott Bay and downtown Seattle.
But tonight you can’t see a thing. Tonight, the world is a
giant shaken snow globe. Big flakes tumbling down. The size of
potato chips.
In this city of eternal rain—snow! Once-a-decade snow.
Maybe even once-a-century. It’s piling fast.
We’ve been tossing frozen grapes at each other’s open ori-
fices. Kyle is extremely good at this—can catch a grape in his
mouth at fifty feet. So can Javon. They dart and dive and roll,
catching nearly ­every grape despite the swirly snow and patchy
street light.
Nick and I pretty much suck.
I dig the grapes out of the snow. Eat them.
They are Mimi’s little specialty, cored and filled with vodka.
One or two or ten don’t do much, but thirty or forty—whoa!
Kyle lifted the whole bag from my freezer. I’ve had . . . ​god
knows. I lost count a long time ago.
And now I’m feeling it. All of it. I’m spinning. Delirious. A
little sick.
Plus, I gotta piss.
 CONRAD WESSELHOEFT

I’m standing on the rail of the bridge, midspan, grasping the

light pole.
It’s an old concrete bridge. The rail is waist high and just
wide enough for me to perch on without slipping, as long as I
hold on to the light pole.
I gaze up into the blazing industrial bulb. See the flakes lin-
gering in the little upswirl. Below, the ground is bathed in per-
fect white darkness. It’s not all that far down, twenty or thirty
feet. Just enough to break a few bones—or kill you. It looks like
a soft pillow. Dimpled by shrubs and bushes.
“Dude, dude, dude . . .”
“What’re ya doin’, man?”
I unzip and explode, blast a twelve-foot rope of steaming
piss into the night.
When you piss off a bridge into a snowstorm, it feels like
you’re connecting with eternal things. Paying homage to some-
thing or someone. But who? The Druids? Walt Whitman? No,
I pay homage to one person only, my brother, my twin.
In life. In death.
Telemachus.
Footsteps crunch up behind me. I know it’s Nick—“Nick
the Thick.”
“Hey, Jonathan.” His voice is quiet. “C’mon down.”
Just then, my stomach churns. I tighten my grip on the
light pole, lean out over the bridge. My guts geyser out of me.
I taste the grapes, the soft bean burrito I had for lunch. The
tots. The milk.
Twisting and drooling, I see below that spring has bloomed
on the snow-covered bushes. Color has returned to the azaleas.

.  2  .
 A D I O S , N I R VA N A

Another wave hits me. And another. All those damn grapes.
And, god knows, more burrito and tots.
Till I’m squeezed dry.
Pulped out.
Empty.
I watch snowflakes cover my mess. It’s like we’re making a
Mexican casserole together, the night and me. Night lays down
the flour tortilla, I add the vegetable sauce.
When I look around, Kyle and Javon are standing there, too.
Kyle says, “If you break your neck, dude, I will never for-
give you.”
Javon says, “Already lost one of you. Get your ass down, or
I’ll drag it down.”
It hurts. They are my oldest friends, my thicks.
And thickness is forever.
But somewhere in that snowy world below, Telemachus
waits.
I loosen my grip on the light pole.
“Hey!” they shout. “HEY!”
My frozen fingers slip. Their panicky hands lunge for me.
But I’m too far gone.
I’m falling . . . ​falling. There’s ecstasy and freedom here.
Somehow I flip onto my back, wing my arms, Jesus-like, and
wait for my quilty azalea bed to cradle me. And my Mexican
casserole to warm me.
I fall, fall, fall into the snowy night.
Thinking of my brother.
Thinking of Telemachus.

.  3  .