She dropped me off at my house, in the back, at 8 AM on a Saturday; she had places to be. I don’t know. Some sorority fundraiser money laundering function at a nearby bingo hall. Approximately 8 hours prior, I was puking in a bush behind the Delta Gamma house. When she dropped me off, I was wearing my suit; an off the rack, untailored navy blue abomination that was too tight around the thighs and too loose around the waist because I lifted weights, purchased from Kohl’s for the price of a nice steak dinner for one. My white collared shirt was unbuttoned to the bottom, tie thrown over the shoulder, dress shoes untied and smudged in multiple spots. I said thanks for the ride. See you later today maybe at the tailgate. In 5 hours there was a football game. My housemates, all eight of them, were still sleeping, although they would be awake soon. Probably around nine-ish. Not sure what they had gotten up to the prior night, but my guess was it was a low key sort of evening, maybe a sixer and the local upperclassmen bar, no drugs, in bed by 2, alarm set for 9, first beer cracked at 9:15, first beer shotgunned at 10. Which meant I had two hours to kill, or two hours to kill myself, whichever took longer. A wager of the Pascalian nature. My first option, and the logical option, was to head to bed and sleep off the pending hangover for an hour, grasping for the slimmest of chances that a cat nap would make me feel better before round two of drinking began once again. My other option was to stay awake. Simply stay awake. No point in sleeping for an hour; the second my head touched a pillow in horizontal posture is the second I would be dead to the world for 16-24 hours. When I entered the house through the backdoor, something caught my eye. An unopened can of Natural Light, left out from the night before. Warmer than your sheering hot stream of piss in the middle of a snow storm. I cracked it open and began drinking the fermented barley piss water, and it was scrumptious. What a gay word. Scrumptious. I drank the light beer and I walked straight out the front door of the house and down the street, still carrying the beer. A gorgeous morning, with birds chirping and sunshine, and scattered beer cans and red solo cups caking the dying bentgrass that grew in our front lawn. I drank the beer and walked down the street towards my destination. Nary a soul was arisen. I drank the beer. The warm beer. I drank the warm beer, and with about two sips left in the can, I pitched it in the nearest bush and continued walking towards the intersection. At the intersection, I turned left and walked down High until reaching my destination. During my ten minute walk from the house to my destination, about half a mile, I saw not a single soul. The universe had exploded, and I was the last man standing. And my first act in this Shakespearean tragedy was about to occur. I walked up to the counter, wearing an off the rack navy suit that looked like it had been through the Sargasso Sea, and the cashier said “Welcome to White Castle, how may I help you?”
Onwards,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith
Writer Boy
Bush Puker
Slider Aficionado