Best Friend Material by Jack Cameron

Mike comes right over. Middle of the night. Three in the goddamn morning on a Thursday. I call and say I need him to come over and he acts like it ain’t even a thing. He don’t even ask why. There are ​​friends; there are good friends; and there are best friends. Mike’s my best friend. Some friends would help you move. Some would help you move a body. 

Mike and I have been tight since high school, back when my buddy Sal was seeing Brenda Berrenger. Brenda had that sort of sexy charisma that just ​​made people gravitate to her. All four of us would hang at her house, smoke cigarettes on her balcony or the odd joint if one of us was holding. One day we were all pretty high and decide​d​ to walk over to the old elementary school. It was summer and there was a swing set there. There wasn’t much of a sidewalk in that neighborhood. Most blocks just had a dirt path. Brenda and Sal walked up ahead, Brenda leaning on Sal, Sal’s hand on her ass. Those two seemed happier than Mike and I had ever been. 

A truck whizzed by probably going sixty. The passenger side mirror came within inches of Sal’s big head. I thought about the two of them walking there, totally in love, wrapped up in each other’s thoughts, neither one of them old or experienced enough to know the pain of heartbreak. And I kind of hated them right then. 

So I said to Mike, “Imagine two people completely in love with each other. And then bam! A truck hits them both. And they both die at the exact same moment. They never spend a second on the planet without one another.” 

​​​Mike ​​looked at me, clearly just as high as I was, and said, “Whoa! You were thinking that too?” 

That was when I knew we’d be best friends for life. We were bent the same way. 

Hell, it’s probably been ten years since I last saw Brenda. Maybe fifteen for Sal. I hear he’s working at a car dealership. Married with four kids. Brenda’s a flight attendant of all things. But Mike and me, we talk all the time. He’s more of a brother to me than my real brother. 

I pop the caps off two beers and hand one to Mike. We clink bottles and he plunks himself down on my couch like we’re about to watch the game or something. I sit on the edge of my chair, take a swig of beer, and try to figure out how to tell him what I need to tell him. 

“So,” Mike says. “What’s up, man?” 

“Remember my roommate, Dave?” 

“Sure,” Mike says, then takes a drink of his IPA.  

“He and I were talking about Marvel movies. And he said that Chris Evans wasn’t a good Captain America.” 

“Well, that’s total fucking bullshit, man.” 

“Right! Exactly what I said. He doesn’t just play a good Captain America. Dude literally is Captain America. Visits sick kids in the hospital, speaks out against fascists, all that shit. He’s Captain Fucking America. And Dave’s trying to say that the guy can’t act.” 

Mike puts his beer down on the coffee table. He looks me dead in the eye and says, “Tell me you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to come over and settle the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard.” 

“No. It’s not that. I wouldn’t do that to you. Especially when it’s obvious. Dave was just wrong.” 

“Okay. So what’s up?” 

“He wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept saying how the guy single-handedly ruined all the Marvel movies. Even the ones he wasn’t in. He started getting mean. Saying if I can’t see it then I must be stupid or something.” 

“Oh shit,” Mike says. 

“Right,” I say. “I was drinking a beer and I took the bottle and threw it right at his head, but I was drunk so I missed.”  

I point over to the shattered glass on the floor. 

“Jesus,” Mike says. 

“Then Dave got out of his chair and came after me like some kind of psycho.” 

“What’d you do?” 

“I ran into my bedroom and held the door shut. He started pounding on it, calling me all sorts of names and shit.” 

Mike shakes his head and picks up his beer. We drink in silence for a minute. 

“You need a new roommate.” 

“Yeah. I really do.” 

“So where’s this asshole now?” 

I stand up. I suppose there’s no more putting this off. Not if he’s going to help. 

“In my bedroom,” I say. 

Mike lifts an eyebrow then follows me into my bedroom. Dave is on the bed, and one might think he’s just sleeping in his clothes, except that the small bloodstain that was there the last time I was in this room has now grown into this wet mess that I fear has probably soaked into my Sleep Number mattress. 

“What—what—” Mike stammers. 

“Like I said, man. He was crazy. Pounding on my door and shit. And so I went to my closet and got my baseball bat. He came at me. I swung. He went down.” 

“He’s dead?” 

“Yeah, guess I hit him just right. Fell on the bed, started bleeding from his mouth.” 

Mike reaches in his pocket and pulls out his cellphone.  

“What are you doing?” I ask. 

“We gotta call the cops. Like now.” 

“No, no, no, no. We can’t call the cops, dude.” 

“What do you mean we can’t call the cops?” 

“I mean that if you call the cops and I tell them the story that I just told you they’re going to tell me that whacking my unarmed roommate with a bat isn’t self-defense.” 

Mike still has his phone out, but he’s not dialing. He’s thinking. 

“What is it you want me to do here?” Mike asks slowly. 

“I want you to help me get rid of Dave’s body.” 

“What?” 

“Dave’s a big guy. I can’t do it alone.” 

“Dude,” Mike says. “You killed Dave. We gotta call the cops.” 

“They’ll put me in prison, Mike. For a long time. You call the cops and they’ll put your best friend in prison because you called them.” 

Mike walks out of the bedroom. I hear the front door open and shut. Shit. He’s leaving. I walk out the front door and see him lighting a cigarette.  

Mike stares at me hard. Then he takes a drag. 

“How long ago did this happen?” 

“Right before I called you.” 

“And no one heard you guys and called the cops?” 

“Not in this neighborhood.” 

“Where—” Mike hesitates. “Where were you thinking of​ ​…​ ​taking Dave?” 

“I don’t really know. I was hoping you and me could brainstorm ideas or something.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“Look, I know this is bad. Okay. I’ll owe you.” 

“This is above and beyond a favor.” 

“It is. Next thing you need done. I’ll be there.” 

Mike doesn’t respond. He just keeps smoking his cigarette. But at least he hasn’t left and his phone isn’t in his hand anymore. I decide to stay quiet. Let him make up his mind. But all I can think is how I might be able to save my Sleep Number mattress if we move Dave soon. 

“You know what, Mike? If you’re not going to help me with this, you might as well call the cops. I can’t do this on my own. So either help me with this problem or send your best friend away to prison for the rest of his life. It’s up to you.” 

Mike doesn’t say anything. He gives me another hard stare, burns that cigarette down to the filter, and walks back inside. 

We end up wrapping Dave’s body in a comforter from his bed, then duct taping him in it. While we’re in his room, I realize I can probably just switch mattresses with Dave since he messed up mine anyway. His is memory foam, not Sleep Number, but oh well. 

Carrying Dave’s body from the bedroom to the living room, I swear I feel him wiggle. 

“Pull your van as close to the doorway as you can get it,” Mike says as we set Dave down. 

“It’s in the shop.” 

“What?” 

“Fucking alternator died on it. It’s in the shop.” 

“How were you expecting to move the damn body?” Mike asks. 

“I figured you brought your truck.” 

“That’s the company truck. I brought my Mini.”  

“He won’t fit in that.” 

“I know! I didn’t think you’d invited me over for body removal.” 

We stare at each other and then Mike lets out this loud and strangely long fart. We both laugh. 

“That was disgusting, dude,” Mike says. 

“You did it,” I say. 

“I didn’t. I swear—oh man.”  

The odor that permeates the room is the rankest thing ever to enter my nostrils. We gag as we both realize the origin of the smell. We walk outside again. 

“That was a death fart, man,” Mike says. 

“What?” I say. 

“Gas that built up in the body before it dies comes out sometimes after you croak.” 

“Death fart. Huh.” 

“Hey,” Mike says. “What does Dave drive?” 

“He’s got an old Impala. Big trunk.” 

We spend the next twenty minutes tearing apart Dave’s bedroom and the rest of the apartment looking for Dave’s keys. They aren’t on his dresser or in his jacket or on the table or anywhere else we look. It’s Mike who figures out they’re probably in Dave’s pocket. We both stare down at the duct-taped blanket containing my now former roommate. 

“I’m smoking another cigarette,” Mike says, pulling out his pack. 

“Can I get one?” I don’t usually smoke, but I feel like having one. Mike hands me the smoke and we walk outside. 

When we step out, I start to worry. It’s getting light. I try not to think about it and lean in toward Mike as he lights my cigarette. I inhale too much and feel the burn on my throat. And I start thinking for the first time about how I killed Dave. And I think about Chris Evans as Captain America. How could anyone hate that guy? But Dave did. And Dave died. I bet Chris Evans would understand. I was just defending myself. 

Still, I’m not looking forward to unwrapping Dave. But what else are we going to do? 

And then we hear it. Some sort of sound from inside the apartment. Muffled. Is it screaming? 

Mike drops his cigarette and we both walk in to find the duct-taped bundle of blankets moving around. We watch as it rolls into the coffee table.  

I leap over it and head back into my bedroom and grab my bat. By the time I get back into the living room, Mike is already starting to rip the duct tape off.  

“What are you doing?” I ask as I get ready to swing the bat. 

“What are you doing?” Mike says. 

“You let him out of there, he’s going to kill us both!” 

Mike holds up his hand. I stand ready with my bat. 

“Dave!” Mike says. “Dave, can you hear me?” 

“Yeff!” we hear from the comforter. 

“It’s Mike. We’re going to get you out of there.” 

“We are?” I whisper. 

“Yes, we are and you’re going to put that bat away,” Mike whispers back.  

Mike and I pull the duct tape off the comforter and a bloody-faced Dave climbs out. 

“What did you two fuckers do to me?” 

“Don’t you remember?” Mike says. 

“I remember arguing with Nick. I don’t remember you being here,” Dave says to Mike. 

“I came over after it happened.” 

“After what happened?” 

“You guys got robbed,” Mike says. “Home invasion. I came over and found Nick knocked the fuck out and you were wrapped up in this thing. Thought they killed you till you started moving around.” 

Dave looked at each of us. I nodded and rubbed my head hoping it looked like I was recovering from being knocked out. 

“What’d they take?” Dave says. 

“I don’t know, I guess you guys will have to look around. I know they trashed your room looking for something,” Mike says. “I gotta get back home.” 

Mike heads for the door. He’s a great friend. Always there to help hide a body or come up with a good lie. 

I follow Mike outside. “Thanks for the help, even if we didn’t have to hide a body. I owe you.” 

“That reminds me.” 

“What?” 

“I need help moving a futon next week,” Mike says. 

“Next week?” I say. “I can’t. I’m busy.”