Where the Rib­bon Ends

Hello Mr. Magazine - - BELONG TO SOMETHING - Text by Adam Cur­ley il­lus­tra­tion by Lex Mil­lena

I’m watch­ing a Mor­ris­sey con­cert DVD when Luke comes free­wheel­ing out of the bath­room and into the kitchen wall. The DVD is stan­dard view­ing in our house, on ro­ta­tion with a Blur doc­u­men­tary and, for the lad­dish trans­fer­ence, one on Su­per­grass. I have a num­ber of new ob­ser­va­tions ready for when Luke joins me on the couch: Mor­ris­sey scratch­ing him­self be­hind the ear with his tongue out like a dog; Mor­ris­sey grab­bing the meat of his breasts as he sings, “Tonight you pre­sume too much.”

I rewind and pause af­ter each event ar­rives on the screen and wait for Luke to emerge. But the shower runs longer. Twenty min­utes, thirty min- utes. I think to knock, to call out. Then Luke ap­pears in the door­way, wrapped loosely in a towel and star­ing at the floor, his drip­ping an­kles trem­bling, ap­pear­ing weak as marsh reeds. He leans ever so slightly to the left, his an­kles de­lib­er­ate, he ca­reers shoul­der first into the white pan­elled wall of our du­plex.

By the time I’ve jumped up to catch him, he’s bab­bling. “I was on a ship. The ocean’s down the plug­hole.” His eyes are wide. I hold him steady. “Come on, come on. I’ve got you.” This is the first I’ve seen of Luke’s great de­pres­sion. I know of it; we’ve dis­cussed doc­tors and ther­a­pies. But our men­tal health his­to­ries are

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