I’m hunched over our table in the back booth of The Spot, staring intently in the slowly spiraling bubble clusters at the top of my beer, lazily moving in concentric circles, finding their way to the outside of the glass to meet up with the other colonies of bubbles and live happily ever after, or until I disrupt their serendipity with my next hungry gulp. Tom Guilt, jaw hanging open to his jet black tie, is watching the guy intently as he talks. The guy is some random whacko who fell in love with Chloe Isis. It’s a normal occurrence that we try to encourage. Tonight, on the other hand, I’m too overcome with all the events and want this jerk to shut up and go away. Doc is across from me, and he looks about the same mind set as I.
“So, this guy I was in the military with,” the guy says–Randy–I think his name is. “He had a rooster in a noose tattooed on his calf.”
“He had a well-hung cock,” I say dryly, seeing where he is going with the joke, and hoping to abort it before he gets rolling.
No chance of that. “Yeah!” he exclaims, reaching over Tommy to clap me on the shoulder, like his predictable joke is some kind of bond we now share. “What we would do, we’d go into bars and he would go up to these big burly dudes and bet them $50 that his cock hung below his knee. These guys would bet the money, and my buddy would lift up his pant leg and show them the rooster, and then we’d run off with the money. It was great!” Despite the fact that the rest of us are completely silent, he’s nearly doubled over in laughter. I’d really like to see the image of this moron, all of about 150 pounds, approaching some Hells Angels motherfuckers in a bar and attempting this trick, then getting the fuck beaten out of him. This brings a smile to my face.
“I met a guy once with Gumby crucified on his calf,” I offer. “I thought that was pretty dumb too.”
“Chloe,” Doc says. “Will you get rid of this guy so we can enjoy our beer?”
Chloe looks up at him with apathy coagulating on her cheeks. “We decided you have to leave,” she tells Randy, or Robert, or whatever his name is.
He doesn’t stop smiling, just turns and strolls off, so caught up in the magnificence of his joke that being painfully shot down by the beautiful Chloe does nothing to him. It must have been a great joke. I guess I just didn’t understand it. Maybe I should have him tell me again. Maybe not.
“He probably still thinks he’s getting laid tonight,” Filth says, continuing to stare at his beer.
“Yeah,” Chloe responds. “The well-hung cock story cinched the deal. That really got my juices flowing. Why don’t any of you ever pipe up and defend me? You know, one of you say you’re my boyfriend, or husband, or father, or something.”
“No guy would ever believe it,” I say.
“Sometimes I can’t even be mean enough to scare them away,” she moans and finishes her pint glass.
“So did you nail that Alicia girl yet?” Tommy asks. He looks very stoned. I guess that beats the shit out of what’s been going up his nose lately. He’s been getting into it pretty heavy as of late, and we’ve all been fairly worried about him. I know lots of people who have had their fun with cocaine, some have even developed respectable problems and come out still swinging. Tommy Guilt has neither the brains nor the willpower to overcome this type of thing.
“No,” I snap. “I kissed her last night, but that’s it.”
“When are you going to do it?” Filth demands, slamming his fist down on the table hard enough to nearly topple all our beers. Filth had his coke days back in college, the last time he was thin.
“Probably never, seeing as she’s moving away in a month,” I admit bitterly. I, myself, have never experimented with cocaine. I’ve wanted to, but everyone I know, especially Filth, says my ego is too big to try coke. He always tells me it ain’t called the ‘rock star drug’ for nothing.
“She’s moving?” Chloe asks. Chloe had a big problem with coke, probably worse than anyone I know. Chloe has a problem with anything self-destructive. When it fails to achieve that desired destruction, she simply moves on to the next attempt. I always picture Chloe and me going out in some massive conflagration of glory. Seeing as there are numerous instances of us nearly being burnt to death, it must be destiny. There was one day that Kurt and I randomly stopped by her apartment, and it burned to the ground ten minutes later. Another time, the three of us were at her parents’ house trying to start a bonfire with gasoline, which resulted in (1) Chloe’s skirt catching on fire, (2) Chloe’s hand catching on fire, and (3) the gas-can catching fire. Her hand and skirt went out without so much as a stitch singed or a blister on her hand, but the gas-can seemed to take nearly 24 hours to extinguish, and when it did, the plastic was melted down to less than a centimeter from the liquid itself. This is how we are sure to die.
“Where is she moving to?” Tommy asks. To the best of my knowledge, Tommy Guilt has never caught on fire. I did knock him unconscious one time when we were wrestling. We couldn’t wake him up, and the ambulance had to come. I thought I had broken his neck. It was very scary then. Very funny now.
“Phoenix,” I answer.
Dr. Filth shakes a cigarette out of his pack and lights one. “Why Phoenix?” he says with a scowl. “Are you going with her?” I’ve never knocked him unconscious, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him catch on fire. A few weeks ago, we were having yet another bonfire at Chloe’s parents’ house (no gasoline this time), and we, as usual, were very, very wasted. Doc’s little sister was there, more drunk than I’ve ever seen her. The Filth siblings started shooting bottle rockets at Kurt Vance. That was pretty funny. One even exploded on impact.
“There is no piece of ass worth following cross country,” I say and refill my depleted beer. I haven’t had fireworks shot at me since middle school, when I had to walk past the local bully’s house to get home. He got a vile skin condition that made his entire face get covered with horrific, crusty acne. He looked like something out of a zombie movie. That was really funny. He joined the Marines right after high school, and with any luck, he’s dead now.
“Yeah, but she is pretty hot,” Chloe quips bitterly. Chloe’s skin looks like she’s never had a blemish. She goes to spas regularly. She highly recommends it, especially getting pedicures. Doc Filth and I considered it. I said I would put on my motorcycle boots and run around Parlor City all day before I went. Chloe said that was gross.
“Come on, Rubin,” Doc says. “What was the last piece of ass you got? You have to take any opportunity you can. Who was the last?” Doc Filth never had any overbearing acne. He also has never had (1) a facial, (2) a pedicure, (3) been a Marine, and (4) I usually don’t mean it when I tell him to die.
“Zoe,” I say. I only had one or two zits at a time through my adolescence. The thing is, I still get them. I take sometimes two or three showers a day, and I still get zits all the time. It’s weird. I would never consider being a Marine, or being in any other branch of the military, for that matter.
“And that was what, four, five months ago?” Doc asks. I still find it funny that his real name is Todd.
“Two days ago,” I offer. This bomb blast is so heavy, it could level New York City. I repeat. “Two days ago.”
“What?!” Chloe exclaims. “You’re fucking kidding me!”
“Nope.”
“Wait,” Tommy says. “Isn’t she getting married this weekend?”
“Yeah,” I sigh banging my fingers heavily on the scuffed tabletop. She’s getting married this Saturday at 10 A.M.,” I tell them. “She fucked me all night on Monday, then she marries this jackass, Russell, on Saturday. Really says something about our dear Zoe, doesn’t it?”
“Jesus,” Tommy whispers.
“You going to be there?” Filth asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” I cry.
“Don’t you have to work this weekend?” Chloe asks.
“Open bar,” I say. “I’m calling in sick. Want to be my date?”
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