I am at the Garage, my favorite bar in Salt Lake City, with a few of my friends. We are drinking, dancing and having a fun, carefree time when all of the sudden I see Goost, a mutual snowboarding friend of Trevor and mine who we have known since middle school. I freak out because I know that with Goost generally comes Trevor...
I haven’t seen Trevor since I left Michigan at the end of last summer, four months after his first accident, while he was still recovering but probably 80 percent back to normal. When I left Michigan he was already back to everyday life, wakeboarding, skateboarding and doing normal 22-year-old guy things. I had heard he was back to drinking and smoking cigarettes but had yet to see it with my own eyes. Trevor was a topic I tried to avoid when talking to my parents or friends. I distanced myself from what was going on in his life with fear that anything would happen again because it was something I wouldn’t be able to handle. I knew my mom had talked to all of his friends and informed them of the dangers of him doing any braincell-killing activities. I also knew that his friends probably thought she was being overprotective and allowed, possibly even encouraged, Trevor to do these potentially life-threatening things.
I am standing in the corner of the bar and making a point not to make eye contact with Trevor. My friend brings me a shot, obviously noticing the overwhelm I was feeling from having my brother in the same vicinity. All of the sudden, Trevor walks over to me, gives me a hug and says, “what’s up whore?,” a nickname he came up with when “Alyssa” was too difficult for him to say after his accident. I force a smile and pretend to be excited to see him for the first time in months. We make small talk, asking the typical “how are you?” and “what have you been up to?.” Pretending to be too intoxicated to converse, I take a bathroom break, where I lose control and have a panic attack.
When I pull myself together and come back out, I see Trevor wandering around with two beers in hand. Oh great, I think, not only is he drinking but he’s double-fisting. He comes over and says, “In there for long enough? Pooping in a bar, Alyssa? Classy.” I laugh as he hands me one of his beers and asks me if I want to go smoke a cigarette with him.
“Trevor, you know you shouldn’t be smoking or drinking, right? I’m pretty sure you don’t have many braincells to spare at this point.”
“It’s my life. I do what I want!”
Throughout the course of the night, I oversee Trevor taking several shots and smoking even more cigarettes with these people that claim to be his friends. On my way out, he tells me to call him the next morning so we can get a greasy hangover breakfast together. We both know I wouldn’t call. Little did I know, this would have been my last opportunity to see him able to talk for a long time...