My Best Friend Keeps Pranking Me, Even Though He's Dead

The last thing I did before Jimmy left the bar the night he died was slip a plastic fork into his jacket pocket.

It was a prank we'd been playing for almost fifteen years at that point, since we were in eighth grade. Not continuously, of course. There had been stretches of years when the last person to get forked had held onto it, pretending to have outgrown the game, letting the other grow complacent, before quietly sticking the fork into the other's pocket. And yes, it was always the same fork. The two middle tines had snapped long ago, making it look like a hand giving devil horns, and the textured handle had a patina of grime that was never coming off. Whenever I had it, I kept it in my wooden stash box to keep it from getting broken again. The moment of discovery--the other's surprise at reaching for his wallet only for his fingers to find hard plastic--it never got old.

Sometimes the discovery happened after the forking victim had gone home. Years ago, the morning after I'd executed an expert forking on a very drunk Jimmy, I'd woken up to a Facebook post on my timeline from him that just read "Damn you!" And I had laughed so hard I choked, because I knew what it meant, and no one else did, which in my juvenile mind made it so much cooler and funnier.

We weren't cool, or even funny, really, to anyone else. Even though we'd stayed in town after graduation, both our invitations to the ten-year reunion had seemingly gotten lost in the mail. We drove by the high school anyway and watched the people who'd never talked to us shout and embrace each other in the parking lot before they went inside, and we made up mocking dialogue for them. "Steve! I haven't seen you since you couldn't get it up on prom night!" "Angie! Still farting every time you cum?" We laughed. Then we went to the bar for drinks.

Sometimes the real power move was to pretend not to notice, and give the fork back before the other person knew you knew. That's what I told myself had happened the night he died. Even though I was sure I had slipped it in his coat pocket just before he'd walked out, even though I played it over and over in my mind and couldn't think of a moment when he'd have had an opportunity to put it back in mine, I was pretty drunk, and we were both pros at this game by then. I told myself that was what had happened the next day when I found the fork in my jacket pocket. By then I had already heard the news, and discovering the fork broke me.

There weren't many people at his funeral. His mom had passed years before, and he had never had many friends, but still, I thought enough extended family and acquaintances would show up to at least fill the tiny room where it was held. His dad thanked me for coming and then stepped outside, and I was alone with the husk of my best friend. I was relieved not to have anyone in earshot, because I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. And also, it was probably better that no one saw me slip the fork into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. No one else would understand, but Jimmy would've thought it was hilarious.

I went back to the bar alone that night. It was crowded; a shitty band was playing but no one was listening, or dancing, just drinking like their lives depended on it. I had gotten there early enough to snag a barstool, and waves of people pushed against me and wriggled past, ordering rounds of beer and shots for their friends. When I'd had enough and decided to close my tab, my hand froze on my back pocket. On the plastic tines sticking out of my back pocket.

I haven't had a drink since that night. I'm not going to lie; it has completely sucked. I guess the fact that it's been so hard is proof that it was time. I go to meetings now. I have a therapist who sees me for cheap on Zoom. I've told him about Jimmy, but not about the fork. He asks me gentle follow-up questions, like he senses I'm holding something back. But every time I try to talk about it I choke on the words. I thought maybe if I wrote it here anonymously it would be easier to get it out.

Because I think the thing I'm most worried about is the follow-up questions. Like whether I still have the fork, or what did I do with it, or what I'm going to do if I don't find it again in my pocket soon.