Perfect Afternoon

Chapter 7

2008-10-26T02:37:00.001-07:00

I was feeling great at this point; a perfect balance of sensational delight. The only thing missing was the routine of Adam’s companionship, and I was ready to correct that, whether he was bedded down with some hussy or not. As I gulped of my refreshment, I remembered that I had meant to bring him a waking-up beer. Meh. He could grab one if he wanted. The only important thing now was to solve this mystery and resume my daily rituals. I got to his door and, not being as soberly inhibited this time around, I gave it three solid raps. Another low groan; no real words that I could determine. It had come to this. I twisted the doorknob, pushed the door open, and walked in as I loudly barked his name.

The afternoon was settling toward twilight, and his window faced the east, so it was pretty dark in his room. The bad lighting combined with his general mustiness and the scent of still-settling porcine fecal particles lent a creepy feel to his dank little cell. The bulb in his ceiling light fixture had long since burnt out, so I shambled my way to his night stand and clicked on his reading lamp. He was in bed alright, but surprisingly alone. He squinted his eyes more tightly shut and turned away from the light.

“John?” he muttered into his pillow.

“Who else? What are you doing? I figured you were banging some trollop in here. I was hoping to get in on some of that.” I can be a little crude once I’ve had a few.

“No man. I was restringing the ‘Hole Guitar and I got a migraine, so I took a nap. What time is it?”

“Dunno scro.” I looked around for a clock, which was a futile endeavor. The day Adam has a working timepiece in his room will be the day that advertised Vietnamese potbelly piglets turn out to be a good idea. I did see that the ‘Hole Guitar was propped up against the bed, and the bait knife was sitting next to the lamp on his night stand. I grabbed the knife.

“What were you doing with the bait knife?” I sat down on the side of his bed and examined the blade in the dim light, taking a few experimental swipes and stabs. It was a cool little knife, but, costing only 94 cents, it couldn’t be that sharp. I didn’t know much about bait knives.

“I couldn’t find any wire cutters, so I was using it to cut the ends off the new strings.” That should’ve clued me in on the danger of the weapon I was bearing, but I was borderline drunk by now.

“Why in the world would you put new strings on the ‘Hole Guitar? You know people will just steal them. What possible good could come of this?” I jabbed and stabbed at the dark air in front of me. I was really getting into the feel of knife-wielding.

“I dunno man,” he mumbled. “I thought, hey, maybe someone might actually play it someday. It seemed like a good idea to give a functionless guitar a fair chance.” He shifted a little and turned to face me, eyes still squinted against the lamp-light. “Hey, did you hear about the NORML Fish Fry?”

“I heard some things.” I had heard all about it, but, not being a student at the university, I wasn’t allowed to attend. “How did that go?”

“It was great. So many people showed up, and at first I didn’t think there was enough fish to feed them all, but somehow I managed. Just when I thought we were running out, more fish seemed to just appear in the cooler. I think my dad might’ve had something to do with it.” Adam’s dad helped out at the Fry, and he always had this thing where it seemed like he could just create something out of nothing. One would think he’d use that talent at a homeless shelter or something, but he only cooks for people that know him.

I got to thinking about getting back into school. Most of the time it just seemed like a futile endeavor; I mean, if you don’t go to school, and just work, you typically don’t like your job and don’t make a whole lot of money. But if you spend a ton of money on getting an education, chances are you still won’t get a job that’s even half-fulfilling, and you have to pay back student loans for years, which puts you right back into the same boat. You might survive long enough to pay them off and then really start making decent money, but by then you’ll probably be married and your wife will take most of your cash to use as she sees fit. Or you could be married and have kids, and you’ll have to dump all that money into their welfare, so they can grow up, get an education, and start the same meaningless cycle over again. It was hard to see the point.

Adam hadn’t said anything for a while, and I was afraid he might be going back to sleep. I nudged him and said, “Hey buddy, want me to grab you a Southpaw? They’re cold.”

“Nah man, my head still hurts. I think I’m gonna sleep for another few hours.”

“Nonsense. Drink a beer and you’ll feel ten times better; trust me. I’ll be right back. Don’t go back to sleep!” I put the bait knife back on the night stand.

“Okay.”

I left the lamp on to encourage his wakefulness and headed back to the kitchen. My beer was close enough to being finished, so I killed that and grabbed two from the fridge. I glanced out the kitchen window and saw two squirrels chasing each other around a tree in the yard, so I opened a beer and stood in front of the window, sipping and watching. It was weird seeing squirrels out this close to dark; I could barely follow their erratic dodges and jukes. Then I realized I was watching two moths flitting around close to the glass. God, I was drunker than I thought. I headed back to Adam’s room.

When I opened the door, I noticed that Adam had turned his lamp off and was gently snoring. Friends can be so unreliable sometimes. I had only been gone a second, and I was getting him a beer for chrissake. I stumbled to the night stand, flicked on the light, set his beer on the floor, and sat on his bed. The bait knife was glinting in the dim light, so it caught my attention; I picked it up again.

“Adam. Wake up.” He was facing away from me; the covers were only up to just above his waist, so his right shoulder was exposed beyond the yellowish wifebeater arm strap. He remained unconscious.

I really liked the weight of the bait knife in my hand. “Adam, if you don’t get up and drink this beer, I’m gonna cut you with your own knife.”

His response was deafeningly silent; he had stopped snoring at least. I poised the knife above his arm and made little etching motions in the air around his shoulder.

“I’m serious; if you don’t get up right now, I’m going to flay your skin open and watch you bleed.” I was kind of hoping he would stay asleep so I would be justified in using the knife, as dull as I thought it was. He didn’t move or say anything.

“Have it your way, buddy. Prepare yourself for my gouging wrath.” I made an experimental little slice along his bicep, with almost no pressure applied at all. No blood, so I figured it must be safe.

I went up and down his arm with the bait knife, cutting here and there, really enjoying the empowering feeling that the shitty little blade gave me. If he got a scratch, fuck it. It was his fault for not getting his selfish ass out of bed.

After about the thirteenth cut or so, I noticed that the first slice-wound had started to bleed. What the fuck? In the dim light provided by his reading lamp, I hadn’t noticed that I was actually cutting his skin open. Just to be sure, I dragged the blade’s edge along the fleshy part of my thumb. I could barely even feel it, but, sure enough, as I fiddled with the new cut, I actually felt the stinging little pain of a bad paper-cut. And I had applied only minimum pressure. This bait knife must’ve been razor sharp. God only knew how deep I had cut Adam.

The other cuts on his arm were starting to flow, so I really shook him, hard. He didn’t move, and my hand felt wet, so I examined it in the dinky little light afforded by the lamp. It was covered in blood. Aw, shit.

My hand was already smeared with his life-blood, so I shook him again and said, “Adam! I cut you and you’re bleeding now. You should get up and put some peroxide on your arm or something. Seriously man, your sheets are getting all gory.”

He slowly stirred himself awake and looked at his bloody arm. “Dude, what did you do?”

“I dunno man; I didn’t think the knife was that sharp, and I thought it would be funny. I tried to warn you.”

He propped himself up on an elbow in order to better examine his now-red and wet arm. “You cut me?” He was still pretty groggy.

“Yes, Adam, I cut you. It was an accident. I thought it would be funny.” I tried to hand him the bait knife. “Here, cut me, and we’ll be even. I probably won’t even feel it.”

“I’m not gonna cut you, John. Do you want to cut my other arm too?” He proffered his unmarked shoulder to me.

“I’m not going to cut you again. Really, take the knife and cut me, and call it even.” I actually felt kind of bad about the whole thing. He sat up, propped against the wall behind where his head-board would’ve been.

“Nah man. I see how it could’ve been funny. Just give me that beer and we’ll be square.” I handed him the beer, and even cracked it open for him, but I still felt pretty bad about the future blood-stains all over his sheets and wifebeater.

“Seriously man, cut me and make it even. It’ll make everything better for everyone.” I had no idea what I was talking about.

He took a nice long gulp and said, “Nah, I get it. I should’ve gotten up sooner, right? I broke the routine and this is what I get.” I think he was trying to be sarcastic.

I sighed and said, “Fine. If you won’t get me back, I’ll do it myself.” I held the knife in my right hand and slid it down the top of my forearm, about halfway between wrist and elbow. My skin opened up like a blooming flower; I had used much more pressure on myself than I had on Adam, partially for repentance, but mostly because I was too drunk to know what I was doing. I put the knife down and examined my new wound in the lamp-light. I could literally see the inside of my arm. Fat, muscle, severed veins, but no bone. I figured I was in pretty good shape.

I stared at my new cut for a moment, and then Adam said, “Dude, did you just cut yourself? What are you, an emo kid?” He took my wrist and checked out my forearm. “Man, you really fucked yourself up. You should put something on that.”

“You’re probably right. You got anything?” He got out of bed and headed for the door. Now we could get to the routine of after-work kickin-it. I followed him to the bathroom and he futilely searched for some kind of antiseptic. Suddenly I was struck with an idea.

“Hey, let’s just pour beer on it. That has alcohol in it. It might work.”

He gave me a funny look, like I was the idiot or something. “Okay John. We’ll pour beer on it.”

“Hey, first, you wanna be blood brothers?” I hadn’t ever had a blood brother before, and since we were both bleeding at this point, I figured the time was right.

“Sure man. Let’s be blood brothers.” I pressed my gaping chasm of a cut against his bloody shoulder, held it, and we became blood brothers. Then we poured beer on my arm and his shoulder (he didn’t think it was necessary, but I did it anyway), and we settled into the routine of talking about the crazy morons in this world.

Chapter 6

2008-10-12T21:15:00.000-07:00

Weaver and Crackhead Joe walked in through the front door. God damn Weaver and his innocent good-natured heart. I noticed that Weaver had a pizza with him, and Crackhead Joe was basically slobbering all over himself in anticipation of some real food for a change. I took my hand from the doorknob; maybe Adam would hear Joe’s ravenous meal-grunting and come out on his own, presumably after getting Nasty Nancy dressed and making her leave via the window.

“Hey fellas, what’s happenin?” I said, trying not to make eye contact with the homeless crack addict in our living room. I needn’t have worried; Joe had eyes for nothing but Weaver’s pizza box.

“Not much man, got off early. And I made some pretty good money today, too. Karma I guess. Do you want some pizza? I had Brandy make it half vegetarian.” He glanced down at the beers in my hand, then at the empties in the trash. “I figured you wouldn’t’ve eaten yet.”

I hadn’t been hungry until he walked in with that pizza. God damn Weaver. Now I had to accept charity from him. I tried to make it a fair trade. “Sure man, thanks. Let me give you a beer for the thought.”

He smiled. “You know I don’t drink, John. Thanks anyway.”

Crackhead Joe’s eyes widened even more at this. “I’ll take a beer! Give me his beer! Please, I mean. Please give me his beer.”

“Ehh, if I give you one, Joe, you know you’re just going to want another one,” I said slowly, letting it sink in. He was like a stray dog, swear to God.

“But I already want a beer. So what does it matter?” Crackhead logic, but it was actually a pretty good point.

“Alright Joe, you can have this one.” I gave him Adam’s beer. “Just don’t get all crazy and start stealing stuff. Speaking of which, you don’t know what happened to the Guitar Hole Guitar by any chance do you?”

He just looked befuddled. No idea what I was talking about. I believed him; no one’s that good of an actor, not even a veteran crack fiend. I let it drop as he popped his top and drank about half the contents in one long gulp, all while staring down the pizza box Weaver had set on the bar.

Weaver opened the pizza box, handed a slice to me and Joe, and said, “So the ‘Hole Guitar’s gone? That’s weird. That thing’s been in the hole since the day we moved in. Do you think someone stole it?”

“I dunno, maybe. They could probably get a few bucks off it at Lucky Pawn.” Weaver knew nothing about pawn shops. He called them “avenues of man’s disappointments, which shouldn’t be exploited.” Ha!

“Yeah, well, they probably needed it more than we do, if they did take it.” He kills me sometimes with that shit.

We ate at the bar; Weaver had some kind of fruit drink he had brought with him and I was enjoying the pleasurable combination of pizza and cheap beer, the culmination of culinary delight. Joe had long since finished his alcohol allowance, but kept tilting up the empty can after every bite, relishing every hand-warmed, backwashed drop. I kept expecting Adam to come through his door all red-cheeked and sleepy-eyed, wondering at the animalistic sounds of Joe’s consumption, but we were left undisturbed throughout most of the pizza.

Weaver and Joe killed off the dead-animal portion of the pizza, and I ate three of the four veggie slices; halfway through the second slice I grabbed another beer from the fridge. Joe looked at me expectantly when I returned from the kitchen, and I gave him the old “you should’ve seen this coming” look. Now there was only one slice of humane pizza left, and I wasn’t hungry anymore. I sighed and offered Crackhead Joe the last slice.

“Naw man. I don’t eat that faggy shit. Ain’t got meat, ain’t fit to eat.” No wonder he was a fucking homeless addict. No morals whatsoever. I mean, really. This guy would rather root through some asshole’s garbage for a scrap of jerky than expose his toxin-jellied insides to Grade-A, only recently expired vegetables and bread. Still warm no less! What a christing kumquat.

Joe left shortly thereafter, probably to find more crack to up the buzz the free food had so inconsiderately killed. That left Weaver and me, sitting at the bar, with nothing to talk about. I tried to make it a little less uncomfortable by referencing a subject of which we both had memories.

“Remember the Halloween Party? That shit was crazy.” The Halloween Party was a common topic of conversation amongst the roommates.

“Yeah, it was crazy. Things got pretty out of hand once the keg was drilled. You want to smoke a bowl?”

“Yeah man. Sure you don’t want a beer?”

“I’m cool. Where’s Adam?” Weaver always tried to include everyone in his charities.

“Dunno; he’s an elusive guy.” He wasn’t really. I was just supposed to be Adam’s friend, so I should know his whereabouts.

“Oh well. I got some killer indo from Joe; he always gets the best ganj! Have you heard of Bireli Lagrene? Brandy burned me a cd of a live performance of his, and it’s great. He’s definitely one of the best guitarists of our generation.” Weaver had been packing his little blue bowl, and offered me the green hit.

I sparked up. There’s really nothing like having a full belly, a light beer buzz, and an after-dinner mint of the herbal variety. I pulled deep and passed the bowl and lighter to Weaver; man, it tasted just like Christmas. I don’t know how Joe got this stuff when he couldn’t even get a job, but I started feeling pretty grateful as I slowly exhaled, feeling the pungent smoke tickle the back of my nose. Just then I had a funny thought.

“Man, remember the pig?” Adam had heard about a Vietnamese Potbelly piglet for sale a few months ago and couldn’t resist. I had tried explaining to him his incapability of the slightest shred of responsibility, but he wouldn’t be deterred.

“Yeah dude. What an awful experience. Poor pig; I wonder how she’s doing nowadays?” When Adam and I went to go pick up the piglet, we didn’t find a cute little baby potbelly. What we found was a full-grown, undomesticated, wild-ass pig. We had to chase it around the pig purveyor’s back yard for almost an hour before we finally caught it, and then we had to drive it back to Troy in Adam’s stinky little car. By the time we finally got the pig home we were almost deaf. If you’ve never heard the shriek and squeal of a terrified pig, you are one lucky person. I imagine that if there was a Hell, pig-scream would be the soundtrack.

Anyway, Adam kept Capone (he named her Capone for chrissake) for about a week. It was one of the worst and longest weeks in the history of the 1022. She wouldn’t let anyone get near her without loosing one of her patented sonic booms, and she had the worst smelling shit I’ve ever encountered. Adam wouldn’t let her out of his room, for fear of her running out of the frequently-open front door, so she just shat all over his carpet. I never thought that that much volatile toxin could be contained in one living thing, but I learned otherwise. And since Adam had a weak stomach when it came to handling fecal matter, or urine, or pretty much anything that you can’t smoke, eat, or drink, the pig-shit literally just piled up. Like I said, after about a week, I got Adam to concede that pig-keeping wasn’t really something that he wanted to handle, so I asked a friend of mine that worked at a vet’s office if she knew anyone who’d want a pig. We were in luck; Amanda even came and picked Capone up, and took her to her new home. We heard about a month later that Capone had been renamed as Sally, and would eat out of her new owners’ hands. They even tamed her enough to dress her up in little pig-clothes, and she had a bunch of fellow pig-friends to play with. Some stories do end happily.

About the time that we heard about Capone/Sally’s great new life, all the pig-shit in Adam’s room had dried up into the consistency of, well, crumbly-ass dried-up pig shit. So, being the compulsive fellow that he is, Adam just sucked it all up with our vacuum cleaner. From this point on, any time anyone tried to use the vacuum, the whole house was filled with the pervasive stench of Capone’s memory. Needless to say, it only took a few times for a bored roommate to do some cleaning before the vacuum was retired. Now our floors are just dirty.

Weaver and I had a nice little reminiscent chuckle before he got up from the bar. “Well man, I’m gonna head to Kristen’s. I’m teaching her how to play the banjo so we can rub one out together.” Adam had started terming our frequent jam-sessions in the corner as “rubbing one out,” and I don’t think Weaver got the joke.

I got up too and said, “Cool man. Thanks for the smoke and the pizza. Tell Sarah I said hello if she’s over there.”

“Will do man.” I knew he probably wouldn’t. “Take it easy.” I gave him a wave and went back to the fridge. Just then I remembered Adam, and the mystery of his whereabouts. I cracked one open and started back in the direction of his room. The Case of the Disappearing Derelict was about to be closed.

Chapter 5

2008-10-08T22:11:00.000-07:00

So anyway, back to the story. I stood at the open front door with my case of Southpaws, listening for the customary racket, and heard nothing. Adam was usually the only person home at this time of day anyway, since he didn’t have a job and rarely went to class, but dead silence was a rare occurrence at the 1022. I went on inside and headed for the kitchen, expertly tearing an opening in the top of the case and grabbing a beer as I walked. I fridged the beers and popped my top and went in search for some sign of life.

I headed back to the living room first to see if I had missed Adam napping on the dingy old beach-house couch, which he often did in the afternoon. No sign of him, but I noticed that the giant hole in the wall next to the front door was missing its guitar. That guitar had been in its hole-home since the first day we moved in, and it was weird that it was missing. The guitar had no strings, so there was no way anyone had taken it out to play a tune or two. Curiouser and Curiouser.

The hole in the wall, or as the residents called it, “The Guitar Hole,” was caused by Britt and Mike, another one of our roommates . Mike was a funny guy. The day that the lease was signed, neither of them had to work, so they went ahead and got the key and were going to start moving furniture and sundries in. As the story goes, they pulled into the driveway in Mike’s truck and decided to go in without furniture first to check the layout. Britt unlocked the door, walked inside, and stopped. “This is perfect,” he thought, just as Mike tackled him from behind. There ensued an impromptu wrestling match of the likes I can’t even imagine, mostly owing to the fact that I wasn’t there. As I was told, there was a scuffle of Clash of the Titans proportions, ending with Mike throwing Britt into the wall next to the front door. This finishing move created the Guitar Hole, and once Britt had extricated himself from the wall, both of the dumbasses gazed speechlessly at the insurance deposit-shattering travesty they had committed. I think it was Mike’s idea to stick his acoustic guitar in the hole, in the hopes that no one would notice this giant fucking chasm in the wall. This kind of worked out for the best, because whenever any roommate needed a replacement for a broken guitar string, they could just get the string from the Guitar Hole guitar. This worked for exactly six times. After that it was just a stringless guitar in a gaping hole in the wall. We could worry about it when we moved out, and it actually added some original ambience to the living room.

Anyway, the front door was almost never locked, so someone could’ve just peeked inside, grabbed the currently useless piece of wood out of the wall, and taken it to the pawn shop down the street. I needed more clues. I was putting off checking his room; Adam was not the most discriminating of people, and he might’ve found a new lady-friend walking the street and taken her home. I went behind the bar to the bartender’s spot, mostly to relish in the inexplicable feeling of power it gives and I noticed that Adam’s new bait knife was gone. There was a long two-by-four holding the back part of the bar together, and the bait knife was almost always stuck into the wood between where someone had written “EAT KING DOO DOO” and “Button Masher Fucks Your Mamma” with a black magic marker. This was really getting weird; I felt like a Private Investigator, now fervently searching for clues and causes, when I usually pretty much don’t give a shit about anything.

The bait knife was Adam’s new pride and joy. He had found it for only 94 cents at one of the seedy little general goods establishments he liked to frequent, and he was always showing it off to anyone who would look and listen. Lord knows what he thought he’d use it for; he never went fishing and he was a pretty nonviolent person. His dad, on the other hand, was pretty much the opposite. Mr. Howell actually enjoyed dealing out punishments, and he didn’t only inflict it upon the offender in question. Anyone even remotely related to the transgressor was subject to his wrath.

I decided it was time to stop beating around the bush and to start gathering some real information about the Disappearance of Adam. I headed to the fridge for another beer and went to Adam’s bedroom door, steeling myself for the possibility of catching a glimpse of some naked fugbot in his bed. I gave the door a tentative knock and waited; nothing. I knocked again, a little harder this time, and I heard a faint groan. Oh Christ, was it really worth it? I chugged the rest of my beer and went back to the fridge for a refill to give me time to bolster my courage and make up my mind. I decided to grab another for Adam, in case he was just taking the rare nap in his own bed. He always appreciated a beer right when he woke up, and I was already feeling pretty generous at this point. I cracked open one of the beers, took a healthy swig, and slowly and quietly turned the knob on his bedroom door. I wasn’t expecting what happened next.

Chapter 4

2008-10-06T23:26:00.000-07:00

I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude for my natural gift of foresight. We were a household of perpetually limited funds, and at the Kold Keg, Adam had only wanted to buy one. I reminded him that as soon as we got home with the giant can of beer, the roommates would demand that the keg be immediately tapped. So we spent most of our share of the next month’s rent and got two, and I had been dead-on right as usual.

I knew we had to get the new keg tapped posthaste to prevent a riot. I wasn’t too worried about our esteemed guests, as they hadn’t had enough alcohol to feel the hook. The roommates, on the other hand, had drunk enough to get pretty maniacally thirsty and violent at the prospect of no more beer at hand. Plus there was Ted, who needed no excuse to start a ruckus, and he was probably already drunk before he came riding in anyway.

I looked at Britt, and I could tell that he was having the same thoughts. He started pulling the empty keg out of the leaking garbage can, so I asked Ted to help me get the fresh one from the back bedroom.

As we lugged the new keg through the kitchen and into the living room, Ted asked if he could tap the new one.

“C’mon man! I do this all the time, and you don’t want some rookie fucking up and ruining the night for everyone.” I didn’t doubt his credentials, but there was the inherent risk of ever letting Teddy P. do anything. I conceded as we dropped the full keg into the big can, though; I didn’t want to be the one to blame for a botched tapping.

I decided to mingle with the growing crowd of college students and hippie burnouts while I waited for more beer, so I walked over to where Adam was talking to some of his friends from school. People seemed to just naturally like Adam; he was a good talker, and in public places he always had about a dozen people following him around and listening to what he had to say. He was currently preaching about a new organization he was planning to create on campus.

“I’m totally serious. It doesn’t matter if it’s controversial; they can’t persecute us for trying to change a law. First Amendment, man. Marijuana’s been illegal for far too long, and besides, it was only outlawed by greedy corporate giants because they were afraid of losing a buck. Do you have any idea how many things the hemp plant can be used for?” I had heard this particular diatribe so many times that I could probably recite it myself, so I looked back at Ted to see how the tapping was coming along. He seemed to be having a little trouble and he was shooing away Britt, who was trying to help.

Just then I caught a whiff of nag champa and looked to the front door in time to see a small group of tie-dies entering, with Sarah in the lead. I caught her eye and felt my knees get weak. She had these giant sky-blue eyes that seemed to grant a benediction on everything she saw. Her long dark blonde hair was gently blowing behind her in the breeze created by the industrial-size orange factory fan that Britt had stolen from somewhere. She had a smile that could knock you down, and she possessed the thin little body of a lifelong ascetic. She flashed me one of those sunrise smiles, so I maneuvered my way through the throng of talkers toward her. We had only been talking for about a week, so things were still a little awkward.

She directed a confused glance at my empty hands and said, “Where’s your beer?”

I waved my hand in the general direction of the bar. “The first keg’s tapped. I’m waiting for the new one.”

“You’re letting Ted do it? You’re not supposed to ever let Ted do anything!”

“I know, but he’s got lots of experience. He practically begged me. Besides, I was waiting for you to get here.”

“You just didn’t want a bunch of mad drunks mobbing you.” She already knew me so well.

Kristen had been in the group that walked in with Sarah, and she and Adam were now standing with a few other people, watching Weaver and some other guy playing the mandolin and washboard in the corner. Sarah and I joined them to stop the lull in our short conversation. It was too early in the evening for my ladykiller instincts to have emerged.

Weaver was actually a pretty good musician. All he ever did when not at work was practice. He said that the repetition created a calm in his mind, and he enjoyed the feeling of the zone. I knew what he meant, but Jesus, could he really get any calmer? We listened and I lit a cigarette because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.

After a minute or so, I noticed that I was hearing something other than the music and the general racket of the party. It was a high-pitched whining sound; familiar, but totally out of place in this setting. I looked around to try to figure out what it was, when I heard Ted yell, “Yes! We have beer! I am a fucking genius!” Oh no.

I rushed over to the bar, picking up my empty cup on the way. Ted and Britt had moved the keg around to the front of the bar, and they were lifting and tilting it while some guy was holding his cup steady on the floor. A power drill was lying to the side. I shot Britt an incredulous look.

“You let him drill a hole in it?! What the fuck Britt?”

“Hey, we needed to get to the beer somehow, and the tap broke. I thought it was a pretty good idea.”

“But we paid a deposit on those kegs!”

“It’s cool man. We can paint over it or something. Do you want a beer?”

“Well yeah, I guess you’re right.” What did it matter anyway? “Of course I want a beer.” I positioned my cup on the floor and held it while they poured. They had some pretty remarkable accuracy. This must’ve been the experience Ted had mentioned. Oh well; there was beer again. Everything else would work itself out eventually.

Chapter 3

2008-09-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

So there I was, walking home in that great weather. The sun was warm on my back, and the breeze was blowing the perpetual stench of the dog food factory away from town. Usually that was all you could smell in Troy, but not on this day. I whistled a happy tune as I approached the Fill-In, mostly because of my weather-inspired mood, but also to warn Crackhead Joe that I was coming. He was rummaging in the dumpster by the side of the gas station, and I didn’t want to scare him into a begging frenzy. He knew my whistle.

As I pushed open the glass door I was greeted by the familiar sound of the tin bell hanging on the inside and the smell of Cool Freddy’s cigar smoke. Cool Freddy never spoke, ever, but I knew his name because it was right there on his nametag: “Cool Freddy,” written in blue marker. I gave him a perfunctory wave and headed down the aisle toward the beer cooler. I smiled at the collection of cheap beer as a wave of cool fog washed over me. Things were just going right, now that I was off work. Usually something was wrong with the refrigeration system at the Fill-In, and Adam and I had to settle for a few tepid beers while we waited for our freezer to do the proper job. But today we could enjoy the cold that turns low-grade alcohol into a taste that is almost enjoyable.

I grabbed a case of Southpaws and headed for the counter. The sun was shining in through the window behind Cool Freddy, creating a kind of dusky smoke halo around His Coolness. Ol’ Fred was a very tall, very thin, older African American guy. He wore these round rimless spectacles that gave him a distinguished look, and he was always reading. And I’m not talking Jet or Ebony or anything like that. I had seen him with Voltaire, Nietzsche, Hesse, and Hemingway, just to name a few. It was actually because of him that I started my newest office-book: For Whom the Bell Tolls. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I kept meaning to thank him, but he always had my cigarettes ready for me and the total for the beer and cigs displayed on the register by the time I got to the counter. He probably would’ve thought I was patronizing him anyway. So we made our daily transaction in silence and I made for the door.

The house was just a short walk from the gas station, on the same street and everything. Our address was 1022 S. Brundidge St, and the number 1022 was known to probably half of the students at the university in Troy. We threw the undeniably best parties in Troy, and our home was affectionately known as “The 1022,” or sometimes “The Ten and Two Deuces.” I hopped the curb onto our yard and kicked the little girl’s bicycle that always seemed to be in the way to the side. No one knew the unfortunate little girl that had lost her bike; our friend Teddy P. had shown up with it at the Halloween Party last year.

I opened the front door with my non beer-carrying hand and stopped. The living room looked and smelled normal; same smoky haze, same mildewy funk coming from the giant wet spot on the carpet that never seemed to get any dryer, but the house was unusually quiet. There was almost always some kind of music playing throughout the house, either from the dinky little radio we kept on the bar or from one or more of the residents jamming on the instruments set up in the corner.

The bar and the full setup of drums, bass, guitars, amps, microphones and PA system were some of the main reasons our parties were so renowned throughout Troy. The band equipment belonged to the roommates, past and present, who were all musicians of varying degrees. Adam’s brother Britt had built the bar one day after ransacking the scrap piles at the hardware store across the street, and although it definitely looked homemade, it served its function perfectly. Stretching the length between the two bedroom doors on the left wall, it was equipped with the aforementioned dinky radio, three stools set up in front, and some stolen neon beer signs on the wall behind the bartender’s spot.

This bar had made its debut at the Halloween Party last year, which was one of the best we ever had. Adam and I had picked up two kegs from the Kold Keg in a neighboring town, where draft beer was much cheaper, and we borrowed a tap and a giant garbage can from some guy Britt knew from Montgomery. The garbage can was meant to hold the keg and a bunch of ice to keep the beer cool, and there were little holes drilled into the bottom to let the water drain as the ice melted. The holes we didn’t notice, and their function we did not forsee. So we set up the keg-can behind the bar before the party started, and by the time people started showing up and the first keg was almost empty, Weaver noticed that the carpet was soaked all around the bar. He was always barefoot when not at work. We figured it would dry out eventually, so no one really cared.

It was about this time that Teddy P. showed up with his new pink bicycle, complete with streamers frilling from the ends of the handlebars and little glittery star stickers all along the frame. The front door was open, so he rode on in, chasing down partygoers and screaming, “Yeah bitches! Yeah!” Ted used to be in the Navy, and he was pretty easily excitable. I offered him a beer to get him off the bike, and we made our way to the bar. Britt was currently dispensing drinks, so I caught his eye.

“Britt, get this man a beer. He’s thirsty from cycling.”

“Can’t man. Keg’s tapped.” This was when things started to get out of hand.

Chapter 2

2008-09-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

Before I knew it, the shift was only an hour from completion. We had had a few complaints, but that’s usual, and Brandy always deals with those when she comes on, because of her stack of coupons. I had the day’s paperwork all ready for her, thanks to Weaver’s indomitability and excellent accounting skills, and was just ticking away the minutes before she relieved me and I was free to go. I had fallen asleep at the office desk a while back, so when I entered the restaurant proper and didn’t see Weaver, I was momentarily confused at his absence. But then I figured an e-order must’ve come in, explaining the fact that the phone didn’t wake me up, and he had made the order himself and taken the delivery. I made a mental note to remind him that only managers were allowed to make the pizzas. But it was nice of him not to wake me. He really is a decent fellow.

Anyway, while I had been tending the office, Weaver had started some music on the house system. The house system really only consisted of a little outdated boombox covered in marinara stains, but you take what you get, and that’s life. The music was actually pretty nice: some eastern instrumental sitar stuff, and it fitted my current state of mind perfectly. So I took my usual non-office stance, leaning on the counter between the two order-taking terminals and staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the passing traffic. I was just about to nod off again when his little, black, bestickered sedan pulled into the driveway, with none other than Kristen and Sarah as passengers. I felt my stomach drop. Jesus Christ, this was the last thing I needed.

Kristen and Sarah were a great couple of girls. Impeccable styles, beautiful smiles, and the respective ex-girlfriends of Adam and me. Kristen and Adam had been dating on and off for about four years until she found out about his multiple mistresses, so she summarily dumped his ass and started dating Weaver within weeks, which is an obviously inappropriate amount of time. Sarah, on the other hand, was my ex, and we broke up on mostly the same grounds, except that she didn’t find out about the other ladies until the relationship was over. I guess the guilt just got to me, pre-altercation.

Anyway, I watched Kristen and Weaver get out of the car while Sarah remained seated. My stomach moved around a little more, but I attributed that to the breakfast pizza from earlier. As the happy couple entered, I tried to look nonchalant, like I wasn’t trying to see what Sarah was messing around with in the car. Probably just more of Weaver’s hillbilly cousin-love music. That god awful entrance bell played accompaniment to the smiling faces approaching me, so I tried to assemble a welcoming grin.

“What’s up dudes?”

Kristen spoke. “Not much man. Weaver said you might be cool with us getting a pizza?” Bums. I swear to God.

“Of course. That’s what this establishment is all about.” Kristen wore an expression that was meant to disarm my care for the bottom line. I interrupted her. “What toppings?” Sarah was still a vegetarian, probably due to my comments about her love for the pig-dick that is sausage.

“Half meats, half veggies,” Kristen promptly replied. Weaver was wisely keeping his mouth shut. He knew this game as well as Kristen and I did.

“Same veggies as always?”

“Yep.” Damnit. I couldn’t let a poor animal lover like myself go hungry. “Alright, it’ll be just a few minutes. You can tell Sarah she’s welcome to come in if she wants.”

“Nah, I think she wants to just hang out in the car.”

“Right on, just a second.” I snuck another furtive glance at Sarah. She was just staring ahead at the side of the building. She could’ve come in, for Chrissake.

I made the pizza and popped it in the oven, and tried to make more conversation with Kristen, but she had been holding Weaver around the waist for the duration of the visit, and now they were whispering in each other’s ear. Sweet nothings and what have you. Sarah was still staring into space.

I listened to the sitar play a lonely tune for the eight minutes it took for the pizza to run through the oven, cut and boxed it, and handed it over to Kristen.

“Tell Sarah I said hello,” I ventured.

“Okay man.” I knew she wouldn’t.

Weaver awoke from his happy cuddling daze long enough to say, “Well, I’m gonna drop them off, and I’ll see you in a few.” I prayed that Brandy would come in early so I could leave before he got back. I waited to wave long enough for Sarah to look up when she realized that they were exiting and approaching the car.

As luck would have it, I saw Brandy walking into the parking lot as they left. It seemed like all the managers walked, while the drivers drove. Weird. Anyway, I went ahead and clocked out and got her screen ready to clock in, so I could meet her at the door. This seemed like a much more congenial way to switch shifts; not to mention that she couldn’t really question me about any problems, seeing as how I was off the clock now.

“Hey Brandy!” I exclaimed congenially.

“Hey John, good shift?”

“Oh yeah, same as always.” I thought I heard her groan, but I was on my own time now, so fuck her.

Chapter 1

2008-09-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

It was a perfect afternoon. The sun was shining, but not too brightly, and there was an early October chill in the air. The smell of autumn, burnt leaves or whatever it is, abounded; there was a refreshing breeze, and all my troubles were over for the day. Ten hours at the Pizza Place, done. Now all that was left to do was stop by the Fill-In, grab some Southpaws and cigarettes, and go get drunk with my roommate Adam. Another glorious afternoon.

It took a while to get home because I had taken up walking. When my car broke down, I figured it would be easier to push it behind the house and wait for a fix to develop than to work on finding out what was wrong and spending my fun-money on getting it fixed. I had been walking for about six months at this point, and my fun-money was at its usual level: just enough.

Adam and I had this great day-to-day routine. He would drive me to work in the morning, and since I was the daytime manager at the Pizza Place, we would be the only people in the joint for about two hours. There was plenty of work to be done, of course, but he would help out and we would finish morning chores about a half hour before the store was officially open. Then came the breakfast pizza. Whatever ingenious combinations of ingredients and sauces that our half-inebriated minds could come up with, we would create. Creation is what is really next to godliness, and our breakfast pizzas were nothing if not holy. I guess I could elaborate on some of the greats, but that’s not really interesting to me right now, so I’m just going to skip it.

Anyway, we’d minister over our latest pizza like the Father and Son themselves, and have a cigarette while it baked in the oven. Conversation mostly centered around trying to figure out what had happened the night before. It was never a sure thing, because we invariably had different stories, according to the nuances of our different and astoundingly large egos. Usually, by the time the cigarettes had burnt down and the pizza was ready, we’d both agree that, no matter which one of us Susie Q. So-and-So was trying to seduce, she was obviously too stuck up to get with the program of active seduction, and not worth our time anyway. So we’d eat the pizza and bid farewell; the daytime delivery driver, one of our other roommates, Weaver, would come in to start his shift, and another eight hours of waiting would commence.

Weaver came in early on this particular day, and since Adam never ate his crusts, he let Weaver have them. I had warned Adam plenty of times before about the incremental costs of charity, but he liked to look like a nice guy and never listened. I, on the other hand, thought that other people should always do some kind of work for something, so I sent Weaver out on his first delivery: a tallboy for the manager. I didn’t let him clock in first, of course. Personal errands are a cost to the company, and rules need to be followed.

While I waited for him to return with Daddy’s Can o’ Perseverance, I sat in the office and cracked open the book I was currently reading during work hours, praying that the local Baptist elementary school wouldn’t call. They were always trying to get me to send them some free pizzas for the kids’ lunch, and I just wouldn’t have it. If their parents can afford to send them to some zany cult school instead of utilizing the public school system like everyone else, then let them pay for free lunch pizza. I had a bottom line to consider, after all. Well, not really; Brandy the general manager took all the heat for waste and whatnot. My responsibilities on that end pretty much consisted of changing the dates on the meats before they expired. I did it as a favor to Brandy.

Anyway, just as I was getting really thirsty, in strolled Weaver with his whiteboy afro and purple-tinted glasses. A walking anachronism, and he was high as usual. Now I don’t have anything wrong with a guy getting a little stoned now and then, but his job consisted of driving all over town in a timely manner. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t offer me any before he left.

“Sooo, what’s this grin about? And your eyes are a little puffy and bloodshot. Maybe you should have called in sick. No one wants the pink-eye, and your smile looks like the early signs of delirium.” I said this in all confidence even though I knew there were no other drivers to take his place. No one wants to work for twelve hours with only about six deliveries on minimum wage. Except Weaver, of course. Good old dependable Weaver. I had had about eight of the sixteen-ounce beer he had come bearing by this point. He needed the money, Lord knows, because he never saw the electric bill and we had managed to convince him that the total amount was his share.

“Aw, come on, man. You know the deal. On days like this, guys get highs.” I think he tried to wink at me, but it was hard to tell, seeing as how his eyes were all squinty already.

“Weaver, no one cares about your shitty bluegrass lyrics. Now go get me the other beer you stashed in your car, and we’ll forget this whole mess.” He always tried that one.

“But you didn’t even pay me for the first one!”

“That’s because I knew you’d be trying to pull this shit on me again. Bring it to me, and I’ll send you on your first delivery. It’s in a nice neighborhood.”

“Really? Aw man that’s so awesome. Rich people never order pizza this time of day!”

“No, not really, you dipshit. But get me that beer and we’ll see what we can do about getting you a nice delivery to a decent place.” I don’t know why he thought I had some kind of control about the calls that came in, but it’s wrong not to exploit the ignorant.

I finished off the first tallboy just as he was bringing my second, and I had him throw away the empty in the dumpster out back, as usual. I sat in the office with my book poised for reading, when an inspired thought crept its way into my newly-awakened brain. If Weaver’s getting high this early on in the shift, he probably brought a little more for when he started to come down. I exited the office in my usual managerial style and crooked a finger, beckoning him over.

“What’s up?” he asked, with his usual pathetic Weaverish smile.

“Weaver,” I sighed, “this has gone on long enough. We need to talk about this getting high at work business. No, don’t protest. I know that someone of your intellect needs some inspiration to get along in a job like this.” He eyed me suspiciously. “All I’m saying is that it would be nice for you to share from time to time. You know, love is charity, and all that. How about we head to the cooler and both partake, so we’re on the same wavelength and everything.” I knew his lingo because he was always trying to get Adam and me to listen to his shitty bluegrass pop.

“Well, yeah man. That sounds good. I’ll go grab my stash.”

“Wait, you didn’t bring it with you? What the fuck man? You were just planning on getting high all day without me?”

“Well… I didn’t think you’d want me to have it at work, is all.”

“But I’d be totally cool with you enjoying it at work. Right?”

“I dunno man. Listen, I’ll go get it, and I’ll give you a bud or two, to make up for the whole thing.”

“Cool man, whatever.” Nice.

Now don’t get me wrong about Weaver. He’s a good guy, and it’s really nice to have him around sometimes. It’s just that he has this unimpeachable faith in the goodness of humankind. He has this idea that everyone is moving toward some kind of ultimate goal, and that everything that each person does is a step in the direction of that goal. You don’t have to tell me how ridiculous that sounds. When I look at humankind, the only steps I see are being born, making babies, and dying.