You come through the door slowly, awkwardly pushing it with your shoulder. It's true, you're a little more drunk than you thought when you were sitting down. Your stomach feels a little upset, stomach or intestines, something like that, but it isn't from the booze...you wish you were used to it by now. It's true, you've been dealing with it for over three years, you remember how Holden Caulfield would hold his gut when drunk, pretending he was shot. You wonder how Holden died, or maybe he just lost his memory and started living with some gorgeous blonde European girl and her family, they hid him from the Nazi's, but since he couldn't remember anything, he just stayed on and they fell in love. But Vincent would never know that, that's kind of sad. Your friends, two brothers are now hanging out in your minds eye, sitting around arguing about money owed for a motorcycle, you say a silent prayer for the elder. You catch yourself halfway through realizing that an old habit like that is hard to kick, you know there's no god but you find yourself accidentally speaking little wishes and hopes to no one in particular, they used to be directed at god, now no one, and that's the same thing.
The room is pitch black, but the light switch is easy to find and brightens it right up. It's pretty clean for a college bathroom, really clean, that's refreshing. You lift the toilet seat with only a little internal apprehension. Your pee is clear. In basic training, your friend told you, there's a chart above the urinal that helps you determine how hydrated you are. You are well hydrated. You wonder what the darkest color is...brown? Wincing a little you flush the toilet. As it swirls you imagine ashes filling the bowl flowing like that water, you don't know where that came from. You run your left hand under the cold water of the faucet, and look at yourself in the mirror. Davey Jones Locker. You just lost the game. You fix your hair a little and do another keybump. Checking your nose. It feels good in your nose. You think of your ex-girlfriend as a sixteen year old doing lines in a well decorated, clean house, drinking wine coolers and snorting coke, your head shakes involuntarily.
The music hits you on exiting the bathroom, it's too loud, trying too hard to reach it's way from those shitty speakers to the deck. There are a few people in the kitchen sitting at the table playing Pente, you decide to come back to get a round in after a cigarette. You wonder if you'll be better all coked up. You wonder how they can stand the loud music, and decide to wait two cigarettes. Exiting the back door, you hear laughter and a little smoke and smell hits your nose. You call your nose your olfactory gland, but don't know if that's exactly right, it's probably close though. You're hungry and the burgers smell good, but you don't want to eat them, and veggie burgers are too processed. You light up a cigarette to suppress your appetite. It tastes good, but your gag reflex seems angry at you, you realize your teeth are clenched and relax your jaw. You look for the root beer and the corona you left. They're by the chair you were sitting in. There's a couple guys you don't really know in and around that chair. You look around for a second, you can see the circle and some hospital or another, you'll never bother to find out which. Also a lot of houses and back yards, someone is watching There Will Be Blood on a projector a ways down the hill. You wish it was No Country For Old Men, 'Always is to the party concerned.'
You walk through and bend down to pick up the bottles, and the bag with the Red Stripe in it, excusing yourself quietly. You unclench your jaw again. When you were young you couldn't handle the dentist, you gag too easily. You got over it, but haven't been to the dentist in a year, you tongue your chipped molar. You need some root beer. It's warmer than you'd like, but you know it wouldn't be good even if it was on lots of ice. It helps though. You go sit in an open seat, on the what could possibly be called a couch, next to Patrick. He leans over, really close,
"OK, OK, here is the Lil Wayne line of the moment: I smoke a blunt while I'm getting brain. I put my finger in her butt while I'm getting brain. What? I'm lil Wayne." You laugh a little, it's a pretty awesome line, at least the last part. It just sounds so cool. He bums a smoke. You light it up for him. And tongue your loose filling. You drink more Corona, your stomach or whatever is feeling a little better after peeing. You don't want to feel like shit all night, a little wave of anxiety rushes over you. You press the GABA pressure point in the skin between your thumb and pointer finger, you think it works, but maybe you're on coke. You want to talk but know you have nothing interesting to say. You keep your mouth shut. It's false, you have a lot of interesting things to say, but you don't want to annoy or freak these people out. You're a little upset, and sigh a little and drink a little more Corona, it's getting warm.
"I don't know what the point of Corona without lime is," you say to Patrick.
"Word. What the fuck, you know?"
"Oh, I know."
"Yeaaaaa," he says opening his eyes wide at you, smiling. You laugh a little, and so does he. He takes a pipe being passed around and hits it. He moves it past you to the person on your left, you appreciate this gesture. It's thoughtful, he knows you don't smoke, and so doesn't offer. That's real fucking decent of him. He's a standup guy, you'll miss him. You, atop a wave of admiration, look around the deck. It comes to mind how much you like decks, they are just all around awesome. Your friends and strangers are standing around smoking, drinking, cooking and eating burgers, laughing loud, cracking jokes; it's almost too bad you never got to endure the suffering and pain of war with some of these guys, they feel like brothers, or maybe better. You imagine having a brother is not as good as having good friends, too much fighting and territory and property issues, seems a bit obnoxious. Good friends are better. Patrick says he wants a strawberry milkshake, his second favorite thing that's pink. And you laugh a little harder than most because you came up with that, and feel good and clever. Everything is pretty good, and pretty clever. It's a little colder than you'd like, but warmer than the past few weeks, and that makes you happy. You're wondering when you'll start heading out to the party. You drink a little more Corona and stand up to talk to Everybody's Uncle.
"Yo, buddy, how's the burgs?"
"Smell that?"
"Smells pretty good."
"Pretty damn good."
"Pretty damn good, indeed." The phrase 'get your dick wet comes to mind'. "You part of operation: kiss pretty girls tonight?"
"You know it. I'm going to jump up into that gorgeous blonde girl I saw last week at the bar."
"Oh? You're going to trip over your own boner and fall off the deck." He laughs.
"You almost ready to roll?"
"Red Leader, standing by." You laugh, and walk inside patting him on the shoulder, finishing the last of the Corona. Pente is still occupied of course. You walk up to Jack and put your hand on his shoulder, you wish you'd brought your rootbeer, you unclench your teeth. He looks up and tells you he's in trouble's garden. You look at the board. He isn't. He is one move from winning. Your jaw tightens, but you don't say anything. It's a gentleman's game, you will tell them afterward. He doesn't make the right play. The game goes on. You point at the board and counting on it not making or breaking the game you, speak a random line in your head. Unclenching your jaw, you wish you had your root beer. You wonder how many people know why you have it.
"Only men brave enough to wear that duster is Cheyenne's men." The players look up at you with skeptical half smirks, you put you finger on the spot where Jack should have played and smile. You decide to take a piss and unclench your jaw.
You come through the door slowly, awkwardly pushing it with your shoulder. It's pitch black inside. You find the light switch easily. You watch the ash swirl around the bowl down into the pipes. You look at your face in the mirror, fixing your hair a little. You take the sharpie from your pocket and draw a broken line across your cheekbones and the bridge of your nose, under the eyes to the ears first, then from each side to the center. You feel anxiety pushing through you, kidneys up and back down. You sit down on the side of the tub. She is thousands of miles away, looking very pretty, with big gorgeous eyes, choking down the cum flowing into the back of her throat. She's probably making little noises as he curls his toes and grabs the sheet. Or she's screaming loud as he pounds into her, hand on her tit, his mouth open. She's being loud and making a stupid face. Your gag reflex is very upset, and you're worried you might throw up. You unclench your jaw, but there's still a knot in the back of your throat. You're worried you'll throw up, and wish you had your root beer. Your eyes are wet, ready to drop. But you inhale through your nose and push things away. You put your sleeve to your eyes, dabbing away wetness as you close them. Your other hand is pulling out the small bag from your jacket pocket. You chop up two big lines on your ID with your useless library card and blow them off the edges of the card. You stand up and dab your eyes once again. You open the door, and heading for the big Red Stripe in the bag, you dab your eyes again.
No comments:
Post a Comment