I walk into the diner. It’s empty now. It’s about that time that the blue-collars are gone and the white-collars aren’t quite here yet, so it seems like it’s just for me now. Maybe I’ll sit at the counter. No, I don’t want to sit at the counter, I want a booth. A nice booth. Why not, after all, the diner’s empty. Couldn’t hurt them to let me have a booth.
Waiter comes up to me, a young guy, a little too enthusiastic I guess, but it’s his job. He asks me if anyone else will be joining me. No, no one else will be joining me. It’d be kind of surprising if someone else did, so I tell him no. Not now, not today. Not ever, but he doesn’t need to know that much. Can I have a booth please, I ask. Yes sir, he says. Yes, sir. “Sir”. That’s rare now, I guess. I don’t even call someone “sir”. Good kid, I guess.
Thanks I say as we walk over to the booth, and I grab a paper, a copy of the Press of Atlantic City. It’s either that or Asbury Park, and I think I’m a little far south for the Asbury Park Press. I take my seat, order an orange juice and open up the paper. I read a couple of articles, maybe. Not really. I skim. It’s kind of early for reading. I put the paper away. It’s too early for reading, I’ll read it later I think. Maybe I’ll read it later. I’ll sip my orange juice for now.
Do you need a couple more minutes? Yeah, yeah I do. The menu I can read. The diner’s still empty. Waiter walks around a little, pretends to fix stuff up while I glance over the menu. Do I want eggs? Maybe. In New York they don’t cook them sunny-side up. Sunny-side up is how I like them. Bothers my stomach though, makes me feel like shitting for another few hours after I eat the eggs. Maybe pancakes will do. It’s kind of funny how empty the diner is though. Just caught it between the rushes, I guess. Don’t normally see a diner this goddamned quiet.
Maybe a waffle will do. No, the waffles here suck. They did last time I had them, anyway. Who likes waffles? Dave likes waffles, always orders the fucking waffles every time we come here. Not that that’s very often, that me and Dave come here, but when we do he orders waffles. What’s he doing now? Probably still working for the county. Best job he’ll ever get. Never the brightest guy, I don’t think. Not really that, but never exactly motivated. County’s good for him. Steady paycheck, steady work, benefits. It’s a good job. Not for me, really, but for him. Him and his fucking waffles. Another sip of orange juice.
Pancakes it is. With a side of sausage. Turkey sausage? Why the hell not. Beef is bad for you. Won’t digest right, body doesn’t know how or something. I love meat. Makes me feel like shit though. Eggs and meat. My two favorite things, my two least favorite things. Funny how that works. Yeah, turkey sausage. Might as well make the pancakes whole wheat. Toss a side of fruit on there too, go the whole goddamned nine yards. Too bad I can’t order a beer. That’d be nice. Whole wheat pancakes, turkey sausage, cup of fruit, and a fucking Budweiser. Make it a Bud Light I guess. Keep with the healthy theme.
Waiter leaves. I check my phone, nothing new. Well something new, but not like, calls or anything. Girls. Girl. Never girls, just Girl. One at a time. I’m too old to handle more than that I think. I wonder if I should call Girl. She got kind of pissy last night. Who cares. Send her flowers or something I guess. The sex is at least worth that. Better than no sex. I’ll probably end up with that though. Girl will probably leave and my hand and me will get real close again. Fuck. Fucking girls. Women. Whatever. So much easier back then.
Take another sip of orange juice. Maybe head up north later. Visit Parents. Good old moms and pops. Maybe. Haven’t seen them in a while. Probably better off. Better than answering a bunch of questions I can’t answer. Where you working, who you seeing. I’m seeing Girl, mom. No, you’ll never meet her. I think we’re done. I don’t know when I’ll settle down. Yes, I’m looking for work. It’s harder than you think. No, I’m not going back to school. Not worth going back mom. I’ll find work. Don’t worry. Yes I’m going to church. Sure. Tell them something they want to hear at least.
Waiter comes back with the pancakes. It’s maybe five before eight now. Pretty quick. Diner’s still empty though. Still quiet. Waiter goes back and pretends to do some more work. Boss isn’t here, I don’t know why he bothers. Good kid, I guess. Better than I would have been. Well, I wouldn’t have been up. I never woke up early back then. I can’t do anything but now. Oh well. It’s better for me. More time to think. More day to conquer. Seize the day and all that bullshit. Seize the beach. Seize the bar. Bar will come later. Beach first.
Maybe I’ll run. I haven’t done that in a long time. Probably about six months now. I always say I’ll start up again, I never do though. Shocker. Hard to run with a hangover. Stomp stomp stomp, pound pound pound, ow-my-fucking-head ow-my-fucking-head ow-my-fucking-head. That sort of thing. One of these days I’ll pick it up again. One of these days I’ll go back to the gym. Get back in shape. Not that I ever really get out of shape. Out of shape, maybe, but never like… fat. Rick got fat. A fat doctor. I’d like to think that’s irony, but I know too many fat doctors. You’d think if someone cared about their body it would be a doctor. Nah. Maybe I don’t know too many fat doctors. Rick’s fat though. Fucking huge, that guy.
Take another sip. These pancakes are nice and soft. Spread the butter all over them, toss some syrup on. It’s fine, they’re whole wheat pancakes. With turkey sausage. And a cup of fruit. I don’t like this turkey sausage though. Too… too… something. I don’t know. Just isn’t quite right. It’s alright I guess. Fruit’s good. Can fruit be bad? Yeah, fruit can be bad. I’ve had bad fruit. Not since college though. Most fruit is good I think. Bananas are good. Apples are good. These are mangos or cantaloupe or some shit. Still good. Take another sip of the orange juice.
Waiter comes over. How is everything? Fine, Waiter. Can I get you anything? No Waiter I’m fine. Seriously. I should have told Waiter to leave me alone. Good kid. Tries too hard though. If something was wrong, I’d tell him. Otherwise it’d be nice to eat in peace. I like eating in peace. I don’t like eating with anybody. Forcing conversation. Finding something to say. Otherwise just sit and silence, and then what’s the point of eating with someone, other than to make you self-conscious. Wondering what they think about you, about what you order, about how you ordered it. I’d rather eat alone. Too much pressure to eat with someone else. Probably would have ordered two fruit cups.
Take another sip of orange juice. It’s eight now. My pancakes are gone. Good pancakes. Better than waffles. Fucking Dave. Him and his goddamned waffles, and his trimmed hair, and county job. Fucking Dave. Probably going on ten years there now. Five with his wife I guess. I told him he should go to college, but he didn’t listen. I’ll get a job with the county, he said. Got his county job, got his wife. Got some kids too. Fucking Dave.
Check, Waiter. Coffee sir? Yeah, actually. Large one, to go, shot of espresso. We don’t have espresso sir. No espresso Waiter? No sir, just coffee sir. Good kid. Not his fault they don’t have espresso. I like some espresso in my coffee, just one shot. Give it an extra kick. That or a shot of Jameson’s. Too early for that though. I guess no espresso either though. Not today. Waiter clears the table. Good kid. Tries too hard though.
Waiter brings back the check and my coffee. I put some milk and sugar in, stir it up, check how much I owe. Ten bucks. Ten and seventy-three cents, actually. Fucking expensive. Fucking Seaside Diner. Ripoff. Could have went to IHOP for that kind of money. Could have had some much better pancakes. Maybe with some chocolate chips. Could have had some Eggs Benedict, some nice creamy hollandaise on it, stalk of broccoli on the side. Stalk? Stem? Whatever. Some broccoli on the side. Could have had that for ten fucking bucks.
Five after eight now. Diner’s starting to fill up again. Waiter’s over serving a couple in the corner, Waitress is with a group of five in suits over there by the door. I open up my wallet and fish for some bills. I think I have some. I hope I have some. Fifteen… that should do it. Big tip I guess. Waiter’s a good kid though. He tries too hard, but he’s a good kid I think. Give him a good tip. Fucking expensive though. Leave the paper here I guess. Sun’s pretty bright outside now, maybe I’ll head to the beach. Do some reading or something. Read the paper, maybe. Maybe.
Three more in suits sit down in the booth behind me as I stand up. Waiter says goodbye, have a nice day sir. Yeah, you too. Take another sip of my orange juice. One last sip. Drop the money, head out the door. It’s pretty bright out, I guess.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
BREAKFAST AT THE SEASIDE DINER (AROUND SEVEN FORTY-FIVE)
ENVELOPED, I SAID GOODBYE (WORDS I NEVER SAID)
I let you go, I said goodbye.
I let you walk
out the door, love followed.
But you—
you slammed it shut,
let the cold envelop you,
left me in the warmth.
But you—
no, you, I let you go.
Love followed, out the door—
slammed it shut.
I said goodbye, in the warmth.
I let the cold envelop you.
But you were warm—
I let you go,
love followed you out.
The door slammed shut.
I said goodbye,
enveloped in the cold.
Enveloped in the cold,
I let you go.
I slammed the door shut.
You were warm, love followed you.
I should have never—
never—
said goodbye.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Untitled
I plan it all out, what I will say and how and when
And I go to the party to wait for you
But when you don’t show up
I end up surrounded by hip, happy people,
The debate over Darfur echoes around me
Everyone Mills about and talks about what the music scene is about now
Really
And how the village is dying, for good this time, because of the yuppies
Again
And I star into the bonfire and die a little inside
I don’t even fit in with the poets
christmas 07
The house is warm and I sit with my parents and unwrap presents and smile and laugh and eat chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven but I
Don’t tell them about her
And she sits 200 miles away with her parents and unwraps an iPod and laughs and rubs her belly and doesn’t tell them about
The operation I have set up
And my friends are spread out across the country and
Danny leaves out his grades and Jessica leaves out her boyfriend and Alex leaves out the blow jobs and the cheating and Jason leaves out what he had done that dark, rainy, drunk night and why
His car has blood under the hood
Because, well
We all have secrets right?
It’s important to be happy on Christmas
And our parents?
They sit and laugh
And confuse children with angels
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Fair Lily and the Folk Singer
“One day while I was real depressed
I could not even sing.
I thought about the girl I loved, and
bought her a diamond ring.
I sent a package thirty miles
to East Somerset.
Looked at the clock. In one day's time
her package she will get.”
The next day in East Somerset,
where Lily did reside,
She heard a knock upon her door.
A package has arrived.
She moved her hair from her eyes,
while she untied the string.
She was startled by a blinding glow,
of a 3-inch diamond ring.
Her sister came into the room,
after hearing Lily's gasp.
“Who sent you such a lovely ring?
You know I have to ask.
Was it Peter, Frank, or Joe?
Or Willie Connelly?
Or is it from that soldier boy,
from Knoxville, Tennessee?”
“No, it isn't Peter, Frank, or Joe
or anyone like that.
It's from that no-good singin' drunk,
Jim Jehoshaphat.”
“Fat ol' Jim Jehoshaphat?
Who left on your wedding day?
He left town but in the morning,
returned for his pay.”
“Yes, that's the one, I must admit.
Now he lives in reclusion.
Drinking and singing from dawn till dusk
is his only solution.”
“But how could a man so underpaid,
afford such a pretty ring?”
“My sweet sister, I do not know,
but it does not mean a thing.
Since he must haunt me a taunt me
and tease me and vex,
I shall call unto the netherworld
for to cast on him a hex!
Obollo Shee, Karink Karink
Karink Obollo Don,
Fat Ol' Jim Jehoshaphat,
for you this hex is on.
May you feel an deep unholy burden
bellow deep down in your mind.
May your mouth fill up with dirt and sand
when you attempt to rhyme.
May when you drink a drop of whiskey,
gin, vodka, or champagne:
May your ears tickle and your nostrils flare,
until you're hopelessly deranged.
Don't call my name, Jim Jehoshaphat,
you're time isn't very long.
I hope you find time before the coming pain
to sing one last song.”
“My baby put a hex on me,
Demons are talking to me,
I sent the girl I love a diamond ring
and now I c-c-c-c-a-a-n't s-s-s-s-s-i-ing
I got another bottle of whiskey
one of gin, of rum, and schnapps.
But I can't tap into my liquor case,
for it's Hell to drink a d-d-d-r-r-op.
Oh my dear, Lily, this song's for you.
I have tried not to write a rhyming word.
It might be hard not to drink whiskey.
Might be hard not to drink rum.
But there's one thing you've overlooked
So long as I've got my guitar I can-
I can-
I can-
I can s-s-s-s-s-t-t-r-u-m.”
My First Million (Part Three)
You can read part one here and part two here!
“Hey there.”
Startled, I lost my footing on the uneven ground and crashed backwards to the ground, frantically trying to aim my piss away from myself. I heard female laughter coming from a few feet away and looked to see a random girl peeing next to a bush. I quickly averted my eyes in the other direction, and she laughed some more. “Holy shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were there,” I exclaimed quickly, trying my best to avoid looking like some sort of sexual deviant.
“Are you OK over there?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. I think I kinda pissed on my shoes, but I’m unharmed if that’s what you’re asking,” I replied as I tried to push myself up off the ground without getting more urine on myself. I eventually made it back on my feet and faced my back to nature girl.
“You can turn around now, I’m done.”
I turned around as she was pulling up her jeans. She was wearing a pink thong, which I could see clearly as she buttoned her fly up. The cigarette in her mouth lit up her face as she took a drag from it. Her lips pursed tightly around the white cylinder as her cheeks pulled in, and she didn’t break her stare for even a second. She had brown hair that was even shorter than mine, and big doe eyes. She exhaled as she extended her hand to me. “Hi, I’m Jo.”
“Marcus,” I said, as I shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Marcus. Hey, does this look like poison ivy to you,” she asked, motioning to the plants she had just relieved herself in.
“Uh…”
“I’m just kidding. It’s probably not. I have been drinking though, so I guess it’s possible that my powers of observation are suffering. I didn’t mean to scare you there, I just thought I’d let you know that you weren’t alone. That bathroom line is a bitch, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is.” I was staring.
“Interesting. So, uh, are you just going to stand here for the rest of the night, or were you planning on going back inside, because it’s kind of December, and it’s kind of not warm,” she said as she started leaning back towards the house. She was completely captivating; an ingénue, mysterious, and wholly striking. Entranced, I followed her into the house, where we took a lean against a kitchen counter. “So what’s your deal?”
“What do you mean by that,” I asked.
“Anything, really. What brings you here? Do you go to school here? If so, what’s your year and major? If not, what do you do for a living? Prospects, stock options, income, the like. Did you come with anyone, or are you here by yourself?”
“Are you asking if I’m single,” I asked, trying to be as charming as I could while swilling whiskey from the bottle.
She laughed sincerely, “You wish, buddy.”
Defeating. “Alright, fine. I’m here with a friend, I graduated from UGA two years ago, I live in an apartment a few blocks from the 40 Watt, I work for UPS doing manual labor, and I have absolutely no grasp on finance, nor do I have stocks, bonds, or any sort of investments, and I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing with my life. Anything else?”
She crinkled her face at me a little bit, staring me down. I laughed as I broke the stare first. “Oh, come on, you’re no good at this game! You gotta at least try. Come on, round two, and…go!”
We locked eyes again. Her eyes were blue. Hazy blue; not too deep, not too bright. Larger than average irises, long eyelashes. Gorgeous. Hypnotizing. During the staredown, I could feel her searching for what was behind the red strains obscuring the whites of my eyes, feeling out my intentions, trying to imagine the flesh color under the circles surrounding my eyes. She began moving her head closer to mine and bit down on her bottom lip. I closed my eyes and moved in for the kiss.
“You suck at this game,” she said, moving her head back away from mine.
I hung my head, defeated once more, and took another swig of the Blue Label. I was sufficiently not sober. I could stand to be more sufficient, though.
“So, who are you here with,” she asked.
“I’m here with Kevin. Red hair, trying to score the holy trinity with Katie and Cathy over there by the beer pong table. Hold on, what’s your deal? Answer me all those questions you asked me before.”
“Hah, and I was beginning to think you weren’t interested. Well, I am a junior at UGA, fine arts major, I live on campus, and I’m here with my roommate, who is upstairs fucking some guy in the bathroom. Your nose is bleeding, by the way.”
“Fuck, I’ll be right back,” I said, working my way over to the bathroom, where I was able to bypass the line by brandishing my bloody hands at the people in line. Inside the lavatory, I used toilet paper to soak up the blood, and cursed myself for being so ill-fortuned. Once the bleeding stopped, I washed my face off in the sink, and examined the damage in the mirror. My eyes were blood-red the whole way around, and my cheeks had sunken. Under my hat, my hair was greasy, and there was a small but noticeable blood stain on my t-shirt. I was a wreck. Everything was fried and out of focus, so I tried to compose myself as I left the bathroom. I walked back to the kitchen, where I had left Jo. When I returned, she had moved from standing at the counter to sitting on the floor.
“Your whiskey disappeared,” she said with a bit of a slur.
“Disappeared where, pray tell?”
“Very possibly, it went into my stomach.”
“Good work.”
“Why, thank you,” Jo said, smiling, as I sat down next to her. “Tell me, Marcus Aurelius, would you like to leave?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’ve been wanting to leave since I got here.”
“I feel as though you may not understand. Would you like to leave here now, and take me with you,” she asked, sitting up and leaning toward me.
“Yes. Yes I would.”
“Excellent, let’s go.”
“Hold on, shouldn’t you tell your roommate?”
“She’ll be fine. Come on,” she insisted as she took me by the hand and led me through the kitchen into the foyer. As we passed the dining room, I yelled at Kevin that I was leaving, and he shouted back that he’d be getting a “ride” from the K(C)atherines. Jo swung open the door, and I shouted “Thanks for the hospitality, Duke,” and as we hurried out the exit, I heard the faint echo of someone yelling, “Townie asshole!”
We made it back to my apartment building after a hilarious parking debacle, and didn’t even make it through the door before we were both halfway undressed. It was nice, being that close to someone again. Sparing the details, she was perfect in bed. She was new, different, exciting. I completely forgot that I hadn’t blown a line of coke in hours, and I came down with ease and without completely crashing. After it was over, we lied in my bed, and she asked me if this is where I saw myself two years ago.
“Realistically? Yes, mostly. Idealistically? No, hardly.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you can either keep chucking boxes at UPS, finishing your night shift with an 8-ball, and sleeping until nighttime just to do it all over again, or you can leave this comfort zone you’re in, and do something with your life. It’s the million dollar question.”
“Well, I guess I don’t really know. It’s not easy to leave it.”
“Leave what? Living alone? The unfulfilling job? The coke binges? The borderline alcoholism?”
“Now hold on. What makes you think I’m unfulfilled in my job, or that I’m a coke head, or that I’m bordering on alcoholism?”
She laughed and pulled her naked body closer to mine. “Well, the empty wine bottles in the trash can next to your bed, and the way you didn’t think twice about driving scream ‘drinking problem.’ There’s a slate of mirror and a razorblade in the drawer in your nightstand where you keep your condoms, which is totally unsafe, by the way. You reach in there in a moment of passion one night and you’re going to end up with an accidental suicide.”
“You know, you’re really much chattier than my other one night stands.”
“Aw, would you look at yourself and your sense of humor? You’re cute when you’re avoiding questions. Besides, the number of condoms in your drawer and the expiration dates on them imply that they’ve been sitting idly for a good while now.”
“You’re the one who’s avoiding questions. How would you know that I’m unfulfilled at my job?”
“Because you just said you were. Plus, come on, a film major doing manual labor? Clearly, your interests are not being fulfilled. And working the graveyard shift? When was the last time you even saw a movie that wasn’t on cable?”
Checkmate.
“I am…speechless. I’ve got nothing,” I admitted.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’ve only got nothing because you’re not aspiring to anything. So, once more, the million dollar question: What are you going to do about it?”
It was almost like she was daring me. Her big blue eyes stared up and met mine. “Well, what should I do about it?”
“You should stop asking me, and make the decision for yourself. If you want to stay in this rut, in your clean apartment, at your dead-end job, then by all means, go right on ahead, but if you want that million dollars, you’re not going to get it by spending your UPS paycheck on booze and coke.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
“So come on, then. Million dollar question: yes or no,” she asked one last time as she sat up, covering herself with the bedsheet. It was morning now, and the sunlight was seeping in through the blinds, illuminating the dust particles I had fought so hard to be rid of floating through the air. They swirled and danced through the beams of light like tiny little living organisms, framing Jo’s silhouette as her shadow fell all around me, eclipsing my body as the sun passed from one side of the room to the other, bouncing off the white comforter on to the weathered headboard, and the shadow lifted as the whole room became bright in the full light of day.
My First Million (Part Two)
You can read part one here!
We walked up the stairs to the front door and walked on in. The Duke, almost on cue, was ripping gravity bong hits in the foyer as we entered. The Duke was a big guy in all senses of the word with long, scraggly blond hair, and a former frat brother who still wore his letters proudly, much to the chagrin of his former brothers. As we saw him when we entered the doorway was the quintessential view of Duke: hunched over a large spaghetti pot, huffing weed smoke out of a three-liter soda bottle. He took the hit, expelled an enormous cloud out of his mouth, and spotted us.
“Boys! Welcome to the party,” Duke shouted, dispensing dude-hugs to us. “Get in here, do a shot with me.”
It was hard to say no to The Duke, so we followed him through the throngs of underage Bulldogs and their friends to the kitchen, where he opened his legendary liquor cabinet, and asked, “So what’s your poison, gentlemen?”
“Is that a bottle of fucking Blue Label in there,” I asked.
“It most certainly is.”
“I’ll take that, then,” I said, reaching for it. Kevin seconded my choice, and The Duke, indiscriminate powerhouse that he was, happily filled three two ounce shot glasses, and handed them around to us. The Duke was an enthusiast of excess.
“Down the hatch,” Duke commanded. I hated lame college clichés like that, but abided anyway. The whiskey burned on the way down, and the shot was way too big. I’d be feeling it later, no doubt. “Alright, boys, I gotta move on to some other d-bags, but there’s beer pong in the dining room, wine pong on the second floor, and if you wanna drop some acid, there’s some cats doing it up in the attic. Shit’ll freak you out, man,” our host informed us before parting ways.
“So what now,” I asked Kevin.
“I don’t know, I think I’m going to see what’s up with beer pong. You want me to mark us down?”
“Nah, I think I’m going to go steal a bottle of wine from upstairs and suck on that for a while.”
“Wanna go do a bump first?”
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
The only available bathroom was on the third floor, so we walked in and shared it with a tripping couple who were making out in the bathtub. Tripping or not, I was a little jealous that this unwashed dickbag could find a mate who wasn’t just an ex-wife looking to make herself feel young again, although the circumstances were probably strikingly similar. Kevin kindly closed the shower curtain to give them (and us) some privacy. While Kevin searched under the sink for a handheld mirror, I took out my driver’s license and my baggie. Kevin found a mirror, and we cut out two lines each, blew them, and left the amorous couple to their business.
Kevin and I parted ways at the second floor landing, and I snatched a bottle of red wine from the wine pong room. I was by no means a wine connoisseur, but drinking wine in such a way seemed frivolous and wasteful. My train of thought told me that I was liberating this bottle of wine from people who were just going to chug it out of red plastic cups. Honorable. I left the room, and began walking down the stairs to the ground floor, when I heard a voice from behind me yelling, “Hey, you can’t just take that!”
I turned around. She would have been cute if she hadn’t had so much to drink already. It was a real shame. The kinds of girls who start shit at parties are never good company. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I doubt you’ll miss this one.”
“Don’t fucking sweetheart me,” she said, and laid a hand on the wine bottle.
“Tricky situation, Marcus,” I thought to myself. She had the higher ground, and by putting a hand on the bottle, she’s already implied that she’s ready to use force to get it back. If I had pulled back, I’d have been putting myself in any number of undesirable situations. She could have an angry and overprotective boyfriend, or worse yet, a knight in shining armor could spot us wrestling over this bottle and try to make himself a hero. Getting into any sort of physical altercation with a girl at such a public occasion is always asking for trouble. Reluctantly, I loosened my grip on the bottle of Yellowtail, and acquiesced control of the situation.
“Townie asshole,” she muttered as she walked away with my wine. I wished I had stayed home.
Slightly fazed, I walked back down and met Kevin by the beer pong table, where I filled up a red cup with whatever watered-down piss was in the keg. Kevin was talking to two moderately attractive girls, who would have been knockouts by the end of the night. The one on the right, to whom Kevin was directing most of his attention, had long straight blonde hair that swayed when she nodded her head, which she was doing quite a lot, and was wearing a shirt that was just a little too short for a girl of her build. Not to say she was fat, of course, just that the shirt probably didn’t fit her the way it used to. The one on the left was a brunette, shorter than her counterpart, and noticeably less interested. She was slightly more attractive from where I was standing, but Kevin always had a thing for blondes.
“Ladies, this is my buddy Marcus. Marky, this is Katie and Cathy,” Kevin said, motioning towards me. I fucking hated that Marky shit, and he knew it.
“Katie and Cathy? Seriously?” I asked without thinking.
“Dude!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, but how often is there an occurrence like that, you know?” I said. “Nice to meet you both.”
“So do you go to UGA too,” Katie (the blonde) asked me.
“Uh, yeah. Well, I used to. I graduated in 2005.”
“Well, what do you do,” asked Katie.
“I, uh, work at the UPS facility over on the other side of town. Graveyard shift.”
“Oh, so you’re a townie now,” Cathy asked. Kind of a bitch; I liked that.
“According to the angry wine pong queen upstairs, I suppose so.”
“I don’t get it,” announced Katie.
“It’s nothing, just a joke. Some chick up there called me a—“
“Oh,” Katie interrupted, obviously not paying attention. “We’re going to go get some drinks, do you guys want some?”
“Yeah, I’ll take one. You need a drink, bud,” Kevin asked, to which I shook my head no. “Yeah, just one,” he said, handing her his cup as they walked off. “So what do you think, man?”
“They seem nice.”
“Come on, Marcus, I’m trying to do you a favor here.”
“And I appreciate that, I’m just not really that into either of them. I’ll leave it up to you to take a stab at the trifecta though,” I told him, looking off at the living room where a group of designated drivers were quietly watching Old School and ignoring their surroundings. I imagined that Katie was having the same conversation with Cathy, which was comforting.
“Goddamnit, you are so fucking frustrating sometimes, dude. I’m just trying to get you out of this rut you’re in.”
“I’m not in a fucking rut,” I yelled a little bit too loud.
“Alright, alright, fine. Have some more to drink, man, it’ll level you out. You’re high-strung as fuck. Your face looks like death.”
“Yeah…yeah,” I replied, unable to think of any other response, as I walked over to the keg, passing Katie and Cathy on my way.
After getting to the keg, I downed a couple of beers, and then moved on to The Duke’s liquor cabinet, where I pulled out the bottle of Blue Label, and began sipping liberally from it. I took the bottle with me and meandered through the crowds to the bathroom. There was a line, so I went to the second floor bathroom, and was headed off at the pass by the wine girl and whatever boy toy she had on her arm.
“Yo, I gotta use the bathroom,” I told her.
“Well, I was here first. Use the one downstairs,” she said, pulling the male closer to her.
“Oh come on, the line is huge!”
“I don’t give a fuck,” she snorted as she closed the door. “We’ll be a while, so I wouldn’t wait here if I were you. Unless you’re trying to get some sick perverted thrill.”
“Bitch,” I stated as I headed back down the stairs. I wasn’t even going to attempt the third floor bathroom. It was much too late to be interacting with the trippers upstairs. They were easily frightened, and they could have weapons. I exited the house through the back door, and found a nice secluded spot near the back of the fenced in yard in which to relieve myself.
to be cont.