Sun-Dried
Robbie Williams/Jonathan Wilkes, PG-13


This is not the worst moment of his life.

I'm remembering a day a few years ago when he walked off of a stage, adrenaline and sweat coursing through his veins, and threw up into the grass, to the amusement of the entire crew. "Robbie can't handle the crowd, eh?" "Told him not to finish that cig before he went on." "Like a kid at his first talent show - some professional." He wiped his mouth and smiled nervously, but his cheeks burned, and his shaky strong limbs grew stiff. I grabbed a towel and wiped his brow, holding his shoulders tightly. He shook his head, and hoped out loud that none of the fans had seen that.

I'm thinking back to when all the tabloids decided to slam him in one fell swoop, pecking and attacking like wild birds, seeking out his vulnerabilities and creating more. He stayed in bed for three straight days, staring out the window, fingers stained with newsprint. I brought him coffee and biscuits and climbed under the covers, stretching out beside him, our thighs touching. There were grey fingerprints on my chest when I finally got up, but they didn't bother me.

I'm recalling our first trip to the beach. Our moms took us, spreading towels out on the sand and rubbing cool sunscreen into our backs and shoulders. We squirmed impatiently and finally bolted off to the shore, giggling as the water rushed over our toes and tugged on the way back. He decided to go out further like the bigger kids, and even though I yelled "Robbie!" he didn't hear me. A minute later, he disappeared, and one of the older kids he had followed was swimming over to pull him out. He sputtered and gasped as the beachgoers stared and his mom shrieked, and as he lay in the sand I sat beside him and watched him, the sun drying the water from my body. He was okay, but I had to make sure.

Tonight, he went out to one of the LA bars and got absolutely, shitfaced drunk. My cell phone rang and I didn't even recognize him as he stumbled out the words, and I only intuitively knew where to find him. He slumped in the passenger seat of my car and cried the whole way home, his face in his hands, shoulders heaving. I tried to coax him out of his seat when we got home, but I eventually ended up carrying him inside, his head in the crook of my shoulder. I pushed an empty Corona bottle off of his pillow and put him down in his bed. He pulled me down on top of him, and I obliged, quickly and discreetly kicking my shoes off.

Straddling my best friend as he comes to grips with the drunken mess that is his life, my hands on his stomach that he hates so much but that I've really grown to love, I think to myself that this is not the worst moment in his life.

And as I lower my face to his and start to murmur words of encouragement against his lips, I realize that it may be his best.




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