plastic Bic, and she took it. And sure, when someone hands you something, sometimes you might just take it without thinking. The way she looked at me was so shattered, though, like I was more than some random guy.
Maybe. Or maybe it didn’t mean anything.
There are all kinds of bizarre things that could still actually happen. One of the smartest, most untouchable girls in school could show up at my brother’s house in the middle of the night in her pajamas, and tell me to quit smoking.
She
wouldn’t,
but she
could.
The girl I write love poems to in my head could stand on the porch with me, so close I could smell her hair, and tell me she never sleeps. That’s a thing that
could
happen.
But just because something’s possible doesn’t make it real. Girls like her don’t actually walk into people’s living rooms. They don’t actually take a cigarette out of your hand and announce that you’re a disaster area. But mostly, no matter how conversational they’re feeling, they never just disappear right in front of you.
Maybe this is what hard-core burnouts mean when they talk about acid flashbacks.
All I want is to get to that point where you’re drunk enough that you can’t feel your hands, because once you can’t feel your hands, a lot of other stuff gets hard to feel too.
At the counter, Ollie’s watching me. “Hey,” he says, in a voice like he’s trying really hard to sound like he doesn’t care.
Normally, Ollie never has to work at sounding like he doesn’t care. It’s kind of his natural state. He hooks his hair behind his ears and looks away. “So, I was thinking maybe I should have a talk with that freshman. The one hanging all over Little Ollie all the time. She needs to know what she’s getting into with him. He’s one hundred percent about her global endowments, and she has to know that. I mean, I can just tell that she’s going to be stupid about it—she
likes
him. It’s going to end badly, is all I’m saying.”
I’m about to pour myself another shot, or maybe say that sometimes people just need things to end badly so they can toughen up and get a clue, but right then, the Captain comes slouching over to us, all deodorant body spray and douchebaggery. He’s smoking a cigar.
“Dude, you’re scamming on a freshman? Are you out of your
mind
? Danger, Will Robinson, danger!”
“It’s not like that,” Ollie says, looking embarrassed.
The Captain snorts, taking another puff off the cigar and blowing smoke in Ollie’s face. “Yeah, not like your dick’s looking for a place to land. Not like that.”
Some other night, I’d set him straight maybe, tell him to back off, but my thoughts are too slow and messy to string together and I don’t say anything.
Ollie scowls and flips him off, throwing his empty bottle into the trash so hard the whole thing rocks.
I have this feeling I should ease up. Sober up. Get straight and go home.
When I tell him I think I’m done, the Captain laughs and whacks me between the shoulders. “I’m sorry, did you just say your name is
Pussy
? Because I just heard you say that your name is Pussy.”
The cigar smell is everywhere, getting in my clothes.
“Man up,” he says, reaching for a bottle and shoving it across the counter at me. Man up.
I keep getting blindsided by a bad, helpless feeling, like I don’t want to be doing this. Which is complete bullshit, because if I really didn’t want to, then I wouldn’t be climbing aboard the blackout express.
Right?
Heather finds me in the kitchen, even though I don’t remember texting her, and immediately, we’re all over each other. And for a while I like it, because the kissing feels good in a way that paints over things that feel bad, and she tastes pink, like strawberry lip gloss, which tastes like candy and reminds me of being younger.
I’m going to feel like hell tomorrow. That’s not a promise or a plan, but it’s nice to have something you can count on. You know those people
Maybe. Or maybe it didn’t mean anything.
There are all kinds of bizarre things that could still actually happen. One of the smartest, most untouchable girls in school could show up at my brother’s house in the middle of the night in her pajamas, and tell me to quit smoking.
She
wouldn’t,
but she
could.
The girl I write love poems to in my head could stand on the porch with me, so close I could smell her hair, and tell me she never sleeps. That’s a thing that
could
happen.
But just because something’s possible doesn’t make it real. Girls like her don’t actually walk into people’s living rooms. They don’t actually take a cigarette out of your hand and announce that you’re a disaster area. But mostly, no matter how conversational they’re feeling, they never just disappear right in front of you.
Maybe this is what hard-core burnouts mean when they talk about acid flashbacks.
All I want is to get to that point where you’re drunk enough that you can’t feel your hands, because once you can’t feel your hands, a lot of other stuff gets hard to feel too.
At the counter, Ollie’s watching me. “Hey,” he says, in a voice like he’s trying really hard to sound like he doesn’t care.
Normally, Ollie never has to work at sounding like he doesn’t care. It’s kind of his natural state. He hooks his hair behind his ears and looks away. “So, I was thinking maybe I should have a talk with that freshman. The one hanging all over Little Ollie all the time. She needs to know what she’s getting into with him. He’s one hundred percent about her global endowments, and she has to know that. I mean, I can just tell that she’s going to be stupid about it—she
likes
him. It’s going to end badly, is all I’m saying.”
I’m about to pour myself another shot, or maybe say that sometimes people just need things to end badly so they can toughen up and get a clue, but right then, the Captain comes slouching over to us, all deodorant body spray and douchebaggery. He’s smoking a cigar.
“Dude, you’re scamming on a freshman? Are you out of your
mind
? Danger, Will Robinson, danger!”
“It’s not like that,” Ollie says, looking embarrassed.
The Captain snorts, taking another puff off the cigar and blowing smoke in Ollie’s face. “Yeah, not like your dick’s looking for a place to land. Not like that.”
Some other night, I’d set him straight maybe, tell him to back off, but my thoughts are too slow and messy to string together and I don’t say anything.
Ollie scowls and flips him off, throwing his empty bottle into the trash so hard the whole thing rocks.
I have this feeling I should ease up. Sober up. Get straight and go home.
When I tell him I think I’m done, the Captain laughs and whacks me between the shoulders. “I’m sorry, did you just say your name is
Pussy
? Because I just heard you say that your name is Pussy.”
The cigar smell is everywhere, getting in my clothes.
“Man up,” he says, reaching for a bottle and shoving it across the counter at me. Man up.
I keep getting blindsided by a bad, helpless feeling, like I don’t want to be doing this. Which is complete bullshit, because if I really didn’t want to, then I wouldn’t be climbing aboard the blackout express.
Right?
Heather finds me in the kitchen, even though I don’t remember texting her, and immediately, we’re all over each other. And for a while I like it, because the kissing feels good in a way that paints over things that feel bad, and she tastes pink, like strawberry lip gloss, which tastes like candy and reminds me of being younger.
I’m going to feel like hell tomorrow. That’s not a promise or a plan, but it’s nice to have something you can count on. You know those people
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