Never Too Late

This world will never be
What I expected
And if I don't belong
Who would've guessed it?
I will not leave alone
Everything that I own
To make you feel like
It's not too late
It's never too late
        Chorus
        Even if I say it'll be alright
        Still I hear you say
        You want to end your life
        Now and again we try
        To just stay alive
        Maybe we'll turn it around
        Because it's not too late
        It's never too late

--Three Days Grace, Never Too Late


He fished the cell phone out of his sopping pocket. The ring tone played a wild organ prelude by Bach.

Streams of water blurred his eyes. The shapes of slippery dark trees and neighboring houses danced.

"Hello?"

"Dude."

His best friend.

"What's up?" he said.

"Not much. You?"

He blinked. It didn't shed the water. "Nothing much."

"What's all that noise?"

"Rain."

"Close the window, man."

He tilted his face upward towards the black clouds. "It's not open."

"But it sounds like you're in the middle of it."

A little thunder trembled.

"I'm sitting my back yard," he said.

"What?"

"I'm sitting in the rain."

He pulled in his legs to sit Indian-style. Rain dripped from his fingers. Cell phones were tougher than he thought.

"You're not joking?"

"Nope," he said.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Probably."

He gnawed down the urge to cry. Hearing a familiar voice was tipping him over the edge.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said.

"Bullshit."

The downpour blanketed the grass. He watched it. And wished the phone would short out.

"Are you still there?"

"I'm just tired, man. Real fucking tired."

"Then take a nap! Instead, you're sitting in a mud puddle."

Slimy cold slithered down into his underwear. "I should go."

"This is not cool."

"Bye," he said.

"Come on, man. Get up and go back inside."

He shook his head. "I can't go back in there."

"Look. You're at your wit's end. I know that. But can you do something for me?"

"No."

"It's something you want."

He squeezed his eyes shut. Trails cascaded down his face. "I don't know what I want."

"You'll want this. Are you ready?"

"No."

"How about now?"

"I'm going to hang up."

"I'll just call you back."

"I'm tossing the phone."

"Can you hear me now?"

"No."

"Can you hear me now?"

"NO! Jesus Christ! What?!"

"This one word will change everything."

"Spectacular," he said. "Let's hear it."

"Nachos."

He laughed. Or maybe something else. "Nachos?"

"I want you to go inside and make yourself some nachos. Put a mess of jalapeno peppers on it. I don't care that they burn your ass on the way out."

"She hates hot peppers."

"Exactly."

Lightning fried some tree in the east. He winced, but the boom was delayed.

The storm was shifting.

"Why don't I hear a bag of shredded cheese opening?"

"I'm not in the mood for nachos," he said.

"Number one, I didn't ask if you were in the mood. Number two, I don't care if you're in the mood. Now get going."

A few minutes later, his sneakers bubbled water on the way to the back door. Toweling off his hair, he reached for a bag of tortilla chips.

Breaking the smallest of smiles, he also snagged a lime and an old bottle of Tequila.

He giggled after the first shot of Tequila like always. And the burn on his lips felt divine.