Jerry demanded that I carry the box of pizza and hand over a slice immediately. I obeyed. We crossed the street, his eyes were closed. I guided him safely to home as he blindly inhaled his meat-lovers.
We got into his apartment and he went after slice #2. It was like watching a baby testing out his I can feed myself chops, trying to get dry Cheerios into his mouth - miss, miss, miss, bite. He had sauce all over his face.
I tried to focus on the task at hand, getting aspirin and water in his system ASAP and getting him into bed. I turned to the faucet, filled up the glass, and when I turned around Jerry had (in some fast-forward time-warp manner) managed to change from what he'd been wearing into backwards mesh shorts and a t-shirt. He never, ever slept in anything else.
Baffled, I asked him how he changed so quickly.
"I should change?" he mumbled.
"No, no. You already changed."
He looked down at his clothes, smiled to himself with a giggle, turned around and took off toward the bedroom. Now, this is a guy who would be devastated if any imperfection was detected in him. His apartment was always spotless, he was always "put together," and he took pride in being a gentleman (for anyone who knows me - those are three red flags that the dude just ain't my style).
Enter: Jerry Junior's crowning moment of our "relationship," as he seemed to be pulled to his room by some magnetic force. With each step, a fart. He took a lot of steps. Short ones. Each time his foot slapped against his wood floors, a fart of a different tone escaped.
I stifled my laughter - sure that he'd forgotten I was there or perhaps he thought, in his drunken state, the sounds were coming from somewhere else. I think among all the revealing conversations and honest discussions we had, there was no single moment he was more vulnerable than when he ripped 'em, letting them reverb through his apartment that hot July night. Blacked-out as he was.