I was heading to a local pub for a bite to eat with four coworkers after having Friday post-work beers upstairs. We were all laughing, riding a steady buzz as we rounded the last flight of stairs leading into the lobby.

“Hey, man. You can’t sleep in here. They’re going to kick you out.”

The old man looked up at me. The wrinkles on his face blended to form deep crevices until a smile emerged. “Oh, sorry. I was just going to relax for a minute. I’ll be on my way right now.” He began hurriedly rolling up his mat, looking up every other second with a smile. My coworkers and I stepped out into the crisp February winter. I zipped my jacket right up to my chin, and watched as the condensation from my breath rose toward the street lights. I kept checking back over my shoulder waiting for the homeless man to emerge from the front doors.

At the end of the block, I stopped. I turned to the girl beside me, “I’m just going to run back and check on that old guy. He never came out. I’ll meet you guys at the pub.” She was a little confused, but nodded before I jogged in the opposite direction.

The lobby was empty. I was positive I hadn’t missed him come out. I ran up the stairs two at a time, looking down the hallway on each floor. Our office was on the sixth floor and top floor of the building. By the fifth floor I was starting to doubt my sanity until I ran up the last flight of stairs. The homeless man sat on his mat on the small landing where the stairs made their final pivot. We startled each other. I had to brace myself against the wall to avoid stomping on his legs.

The man began apologizing again, rolling up his mat.

“Look.” I said, catching my breath. “I don’t personally give a shit if you want to sleep here, but if other tenants see you, they might call the cops.”

“Yes, of course.” He was fastening the mat to his backpack. “I was only going to rest for fifteen minutes. Just shut my eyes. I’ll be going.” There was a lot of fear in the man’s eyes. His stale brown pupils darted from side to side.

“Hey, how about you join me for a quick beer in my office?” I still had four beers in the fridge. We had couches for lounging too.

“Oh,  no, no. I couldn’t do –”

“Come on,” I insisted. “It’ll keep you out of the cold for a bit. I’m in no rush.”

It was sitting on the office couch that he introduced himself as Bob, offering a fist pound in place of a handshake, which is common among street people, even the oldest ones. It’s a courtesy extended to a germ-conscious population so they don’t have to awkwardly cringe while shaking a filthy hand.

I learned a lot about Bob that night. We ended up talking for almost three hours. He told me about life on the street. Showed me his crack pipe. Tried to smoke his crack pipe but I wouldn’t let him. He talked about how he had a wife and a job as a manager at A&W but his wife left him. A year after she did, he hired a prostitute outside of a bar. She gave him his first hit of crack. From there he was homeless in less than a year.

I told Bob he was going to kill himself doing crack. He acknowledged it and said he wouldn’t have it any other way. While refreshing my beer, I noticed all the empty bottles under the office kitchen sink. There was at least forty dollars worth. I suggested he return on Monday to bring them back to the bottle depot for cash. The prospect excited him considerably. I said my goodbyes to Bob and showed up just in time to watch my coworkers pay their tab at the restaurant.

Bob came by the following Monday. I had forgotten my new assistant was starting that day, so it was a little awkward explaining to her the crazy homeless man in the office was a friend of mine. Bob managed to take all the bottles while only making one inappropriate joke to a female coworker, something along the lines of “you’re sexy. Is your mother available?” I both laughed and cringed.

I didn’t see Bob for a number of months, until late in the summer. I was walking down a busy pedestrian street in the morning to mail a letter, and there was Bob shoving along a wheelbarrow full of his belongs. When I say shoving, I don’t mean he was lifting and pushing the wheelbarrow. Rather, he would lift the wheelbarrow up and propel it forward as hard as he could. The wheelbarrow careened down the roadway, corporate drones diving out of the way, before grinding to an abrupt stop. The only thing more surreal was the manic old man chasing behind it, waving his arms in the air ready to do it over again.

I tapped Bob on the shoulder and asked him if he remembered me. He looked through vacant but crazed eyes until he dug up the memory. “Yes, yes, from the office. I do remember. Do you have a buck I can borrow?”

“Nah, I don’t. But I’ll take you in there,” I said, pointing to a McDonalds, “and buy you a coffee.”

“Oh excellent. That would be great.”

Bob and I sat down at the table. I bought him a couple of burgers too since he weighed no more than the wrappers that contained them. I once again prodded him about the intimacies of his life. He repeated many of the same things from our previous encounter. At one point he stood up from the table. The patrons watched in terror as he marched around the restaurant shouting undecipherable nonsense. I corralled him back to the table. He let out a ferocious laugh and asked if he was embarrassing me. I reassured him the morning McDonalds crowd was not a demographic that concerned my reputation. We joked for a few more sentences, until Bob raised his gaze from my eyes to above my head. I looked behind me but nothing was there. He was only staring off into the distance. His voice trembled, dropping almost to a whisper.

“After my wife left me in the seventies, I checked into a loony bin.” He clenched a fist, raising it to his chin. “They put duct tape around my wrists and legs to pin me to the bed. When I screamed, they duct taped my mouth shut.” He slammed his fist so hard on the table that coffee jumped out of the cup. Tears filled his eyes. He shouted, “For fucking weeks and months at a time, they did this. I only wanted help.”

The last sentence was primal in a way that activated the human startle response in others. Several customers sat frozen and wide-eyed as we picked our stuff up and left. Outside Bob told me he needed to get high, before giving me a fist-pound and shuffling  down the street with his wheelbarrow.

Recently I gave standup comedy a shot. Ben Corman came up to Calgary to help me go through with it. The pressure of preparing my first five minute set, and fighting off the nerves associated with getting on stage, led me into a terrible bender. I drink a lot. Too much in my opinion, but not so much that it ruins my life. I have no problem admitting I have a social drinking addiction. I am much more successful in a group setting after a beer or ten. But, not until the latest binge have I experienced the frightening physical addiction that comes with compounding drunks. Hangovers so severe that I need to grasp a morning cocktail with two shaking hands to avoid dropping the glass as I swigged it back. Basking in the almost immediate relief that followed the burning in my throat.

After a week of responsible heavy drinking, I strung together four days of morning to night boozing, usually upwards of sixteen hours a day. My time to get on stage kept getting pushed back a day. I staved off the impending hangover with more alcohol. There was no relief during the restless sleeps, except to start all over again in the morning. Finally, after successfully performing on stage, it came time to pay the piper and sober up. Deep down I knew I was in trouble, but after an entire day of barely being able to keep myself from throwing up, I went to bed. More tossing and turning. My internal temperature flipping from burning hot to shivering cold. Hours passed until I finally managed to drift into sleep, or more accurately an unconscious paralysis. In my state, I experienced hallucinations so vivid and terrifying that I’m astounded the human mind could even conceive them. All the while taking place in a setting that mirrored my real-life bedroom exactly. In the nightmare, I screamed for somebody to save me, wake me up, help me but, despite being right in front of me, they couldn’t hear. Then my eyelids snapped open. I lay in the bed, perfectly still, sheets torn off around me and in a cold sweat. Every muscle in my body ached for another drink but I was thankfully sane enough to realize that it was booze that had made me into a shivering wreck in the first place.

A few days later, and I feel like my normal self again. The addiction demons have lost their grip on me after an agonizing withdrawal period. I was lucky too. I’ve read the stories about detoxes so severe it leads hardened alcoholics to comas or death.

A week after that morning McDonalds encounter with Bob, I attempted to find him by scouring the homeless population that lived around the downtown shelter. I was met with many laughs and a few threats as I asked around for Bob, the haggard old man who was likely pushing a wheelbarrow. I walked down the long sorrowful lineup of people waiting to get into the shelter for a night’s rest. No Bob. People glowered at me through gritted teeth as my untorn jeans and clean t-shirt identified me as an Other. I gave up well after the sun had set, furious when a twenty-something vagrant attempted to distract me while his father, clumsily and obviously, tried to get at my wallet.

I saw Bob about a month later downtown. He was across the street, unable to keep his head up, wearing a red santa hat with a brim only a shade grayer than his skin. He lifted the bottom of his shirt to wipe his mouth revealing a skeletal torso so thin I could almost see his spine through his stomach. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him. That was the last time I ever saw him.

Bob made it very clear that he intended to die on Calgary streets. I’m certain, by now, he has accomplished his goal. After tumbling so easily, albeit unintentionally, into physical addiction trying to prepare myself for something so simple as performing standup for five minutes in front of strangers, I have a whole new empathy for addicts. I can only imagine how fast it must happen when people have real physical, emotional, or psychological trauma to deal with.

It’s no secret that hardcore addiction consumes the human mind. The person smashing your car window for crack money or descending into insurmountable debt for beer is not the same person who took his or her first misstep down the slippery slope. Yet, beneath the whole mess a lost soul still resides. One that started out trying to keep the demons at bay by digging a hole and kept digging until they became hopelessly lost in an infinite canyon. Confronting those demons is hard enough when sound of mind. But tack on a body that rebels with every cell, and a mind that dedicates every neuron to self-loathing, it’s no wonder people are ready to kamikaze their lives into an early grave.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget Bob. Nor will I forget the too-real nightmare from the other night. Both represent a helplessness that reflects the fragility of human sanity.

It was the legendary Hunter S. Thompson who wrote “The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” Truer words have never been written. But when it comes to an edge as steep and treacherous as addiction, if you’re lucky enough to grab a branch and pull yourself back up, or have a friend or loved one grab you by the collar and heave you on up – you best count your blessings, taking the lesson to heart. The edge represents irresponsibility. It represents a disrespect for human limitations. And it is an interesting place to reside. As I mentioned, I like a good drink, as long as I’m controlling the drink and not the other way around. If you tumble down the canyon and lose respect for the demon, then you’ve lost the game forever because your choices no longer include moderation. The decision becomes binary – either abstinence or self-destruction, and no one wants that.

Forget about chasing the dragon. The real game is taming the lion. Because as soon as that lion devours you, the circus is over.

Let’s get to the good stuff:

Title: The Demon
Author: Hubert Selby Jr.
My favorite book of all time. Selby Jr. is the perfect combination of unorthodox writing style and real world grittiness that goes to ugly places in the human subconscious most people wont even admit exist. Selby skips all the pretense and speaks right to the primal animal caged within us all. Today’s generation is probably most familiar with Selby Jr. via Aronofsky’s film Requiem for a Dream. If you don’t already know, Requeim was a book penned by Selby long before it terrorized drug-curious teens straight. The Demon is a story about addiction, a story about chasing the dragon – whatever that dragon may be – and looking to top the previous chemical high with a new rush. A battle against life’s cruelest enemy: tolerance. No rush is as good as the last unless we raise the stakes. Anybody with a vice can relate to this – the heroin addict, the cliff diving adrenaline junkie, the four hundred pound obese man, the alcoholic, the kleptomaniac. Everyone. The quickest path to destruction is to appease the urge for the next cheap trick. It can also be the best path. You really can’t go wrong with anything by Selby Jr. but The Demon remains as fresh in my mind as the day I first picked it up years ago. Check it out.

Title: Year of the Cock: The Remarkable True Account of a Married Man Who Left His Wife and Paid the Price
Author: Alan Wieder
With more than half of all marriages leading to divorce, one has to wonder what has changed in the past few decades. Perhaps the world is more catered to the individual now, and dual-parent households aren’t a necessity. Maybe they were never natural in the first place, but societal pressure and convenience still hold monogamy as the status quo. Marriage does work for a lot of people. Others, however, live in denial for years and years until they finally… snap. Alan Wieder is one of these people. After marrying young and in love, Wieder rises through the Hollywood ranks as a hotshot producer in the reality tv market. He is often busy with work and seems to have less and less time for his wife. Finally, one day, he leaves. No phone call. No notice. Just packs his stuff and moves out. Within weeks he’s living the bachelor’s dream. He’s got his own state of the art pad. He drives a brand new Porsche. He even lines up three dates in one weekend with young Hollywood sluts. Life couldn’t get any better for him. His wife probably isn’t doing quite as well. But Wieder wouldn’t know. He ignores all her calls. Then one day a very, ummm unusual, celebrity sex tape causes him to wonder about the size of his penis. Is his cock too small? It’s a simple question for most but for Wieder it was the beginning of a downward spiral into mental illness, obsession and self-loathing that burrows beneath rock bottom. Wieder doesn’t come off as a particularly likable narrator. He’s arrogant and doesn’t quite seem to grasp the full consequences of his decisions even in hindsight. Still, for anyone how wants to read a true, first-hand account of going insane, without the usual drug abuse angle, it’s a great read. Regardless of whether you like him or not, Wieder does have a talent with prose.

Title: Can’t You Get Along With Anyone?: A Writer’s Memoir and a Tale of a Lost Surfer’s Paradise
Author: Allan C. Weisbecker
Was I just talking about unlikeable screenwriter narrators? Good, let’s keep it consistent with Weisbecker’s latest outing, and his second memoir. Recognized for his cult classics Cosmic Banditos and In Search of Captain Zero, Weisbecker is back with a vengeance this time around. He’s older, and no longer chasing traditional success, which basically allows him the opportunity to fuck over all the people that have been bending him over the last decade. John Cusack and Sean Penn find themselves on the business end of Weisbecker’s literary foot. He manages to turn Hollywood on its head from his isolated tropical paradise. When things get tough he has the world’s best surfing to fall back on, and, of course, a beautiful girlfriend who is the love of his life. Boiling beneath the surface, paradise isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. The same might be said for his new found soulmate. Weisbecker is a prick. I don’t think he’d disagree with that statement. He’s paranoid and confrontational, quick to anger and vindictive but as he unravels a tale of betrayal you can’t help but find yourself sucked into his insanity. At times you wonder how the man can be so gullible but it’s his good qualities that lead to him being taken advantage of by ruthless savages in a lawless paradise. Before long, we’re living Weisbecker’s nightmare. He sweeps us along for five hundred pages, and by the end of it, possibly due to his honesty, we’re routing for this quirky old surfer to uncover the ugly truth.

Title: Happy Hour Is for Amateurs: Work Sucks. Life Doesn’t Have To
Author: Philadelphia Lawyer
Philadelphia Lawyer is hard to define. He’s been compared to HST, Bukowski and other controversial, opinionated male writers of past generations, but none quite seem to fit. No doubt such comparisons are flattering and deserved, still Philadelphia Lawyer treads his own paths as he searches for the faint pulse in a dying world consumed by drugs, debauchery, depression, selfishness and soul-crushing work. Phila’s anonymity gives him the freedom to expose farces in the legal world that might otherwise cost somebody their livelihood. But don’t let the legal context fool you, anybody who has found themselves faced with a cubicle’s blank stare will relate to the thankless work environment, and the rebellious human need to destroy ourselves in retaliation just so we know we are capable of feelings something. Happy Hour is for Amateurs is Phila’s first full-length novel but it wont be his last. Pick it up now, and you will spend as much time laughing your ass off as you will silently weeping for the future of our species.

Title: Six Degrees of Paris Hilton: Inside the Sex Tapes, Scandals, and Shakedowns of the New Hollywood
Author: Mark Ebner
Ebner is rare breed. He’s a personal hero of mine, having given me some of the best advice when I was first starting out with writing. After meeting him a couple of times, I can confirm the man is insane. If you read his books or articles, you don’t need me to tell you that. In the age of narcissism, Ebner walks to a different beat and sticks to old-school, hard-nosed journalism. Six Degrees of Paris Hilton lets the crazy cast of young criminals take center stage while Ebner puts his own ego aside. Instead, we are treated with a fairly even presentation of despicable parasites who commit crimes against the equally unlikeable young spoiled celebrity shitheads. I have no sympathy for the latter since most were born into wealth and had they been Betty-Sue’s child from buttfuck Arkansas, you can rest assured the talentless hacks would be stocking shelves at Walmart’s obscurity section. It is hard to imagine a worse set of people than undeserving Hollywood stars, but Ebner manages to find them in the crooks that prey on dimwit celebs. The more Ebner pushes on, the deeper he finds himself in the seedy underbelly that exists just below fallacious tabloid fodder. And, amazingly, it’s more terrible than you can imagine. We need more journalists like Ebner. Unfortunately, consistently putting your life on the line isn’t a coveted employment strategy for many writers.

Title: Rum Diaries
Author: Hunter S. Thompson
HST is recognized as one of the greatest living journalists of all time. Timeless classics like Hells Angels and Fear and Loathing are already cemented in the modern English canon, merely five years after his suicide. Always political, some of Hunter’s works, while brilliant in their craft, have lost some impact as the issues are no longer relevant in today’s political climate. It’s still a joy to relive old campaigns through the eyes of a lunatic, but I always find myself wishing he was still around today to dissect our current political clusterfuck. Then again, he’d probably get so depressed, he wouldd blow his brains out… Oh wait. Among all his masterpieces, rests Hunter’s one work of fiction. Just how fictitious remains unclear since the protagonist thinks and acts very much like Hunter. The plot may be false, but the characters and inner-monologue feel all too genuine. Nevertheless, the Rum Diaries is a simple, maniacal tale about human politics, love, rum, fear of aging and how they all intersect. It’s a book that will transport you to 1950’s Puerto Rico, and give you a peak into a young HST’s mind.  Better yet, it’s currently being filmed as a Hollywood movie starring Johnny Depp. If you read it now, you can play your pretentious asshole card when everybody starts raving about it, and say “I read the book years ago.”

Title: American Psycho
Author: Brett Easton Ellis
Having grown up on the cusp of the internet era, it is almost impossible to disturb me anymore. I wont relay the horrors I’ve witnessed, mostly accidentally, during my time spent online for the sensitive readers out there, but let’s just say very, very few things shock me anymore. Literature has the ability to disturb a reader in ways [insert whatever disgusting internet video] can’t. Bret Easton Ellis authors a terrorizing tale by placing you inside the mind of a high functioning lawyer serial-killer sociopath in 1989 Manhattan. The story of Lifeat160… err, I mean the story of Patrick Bateman is perhaps best known through Christian Bale’s exceptional portrayal in the 2000 film adaptation, but, if you can believe it, the character is even more frightening and the murders more disturbing in the book version. There are a few ways to interpret the book, but the underlying message about materialism and the shallow, self-absorbed, soulless corporate world is even more relevant today. In fact, the book’s most chilling aspect is how accurately Bret Easton Ellis nailed the unflattering side effect of capitalist culture, and the realization that it’s likely to get much worse.

Title: Blindness
Author: Jose Saramago
This may be the first book I read that really made me fall in love with literature. I’d read many books previous to Blindness, but Saramago took my appreciation for  storytelling to a whole new level. This is no diamond in the rough, genius recommendation. The book won a much deserved Nobel prize. Saramago, like Selby Jr., doesn’t have much use for grammatical conventions. His work is translated from Portuguese but the English version retains his scarce punctuation. Without quotation marks it makes it difficult to determine who’s speaking, but once you get use to Saramago’s masterful grasp on weaving a tale, you are in for a real treat. Blindness tells the story of a world devoid of structure. What happens when the whole world goes blind? With the chaos emerging in a panic-stricken Haiti, never before has Saramago’s semi-political book been so pertinent. This is one of those rare books that will play out like a movie in your head. What’s more amazing is that he creates a purely visual experience in a narrative where the characters, for the most part, lack the ability to see. There are some religious connotations, but what’s really under analysis is human nature, the evil that arises when the stakes are life or death and every individual for his or herself. But more importantly it’s about the survival and triumph of the human spirit.  Plus, I found an edition on Amazon that is cheap as shit (as listed in the widget to your right).

Bonus book: Our very own Tremble the Devil has an entire book for free on his website. I’ve heard rumors we might see a Kindle friendly version in the near future, for those of you less inclined to read it on your computer screen.

If you do read or have read any of the books below, feel free to leave comments or send me an email about your thoughts. Likewise, if you have your own suggestions, toss them in the comments section. The list above above is sorely lacking a female presence. We need to fix that. Literature lives and dies by word-of-mouth these days, so do everyone a favor and spread the good news when you stumble across a work you loved.

Not on purpose, of course.  I was cutting the straps off a bundle of flyers during my night job at a newspaper plant, and the knife slipped. As soon as it happened, though mostly painless, I knew I was in trouble. I walked over to the boss to tell her before heading to the bathroom to bandage myself up.

A short drive to the hospital and an hour later, I was lying in a bed waiting to get stitched up. A drunken, grubby man was in the bed across from me fighting off the doctors and nurses. I knew he was drunk because I could smell the alcohol. That, and the incoherent slurring. He had a large gash on his forehead, and did not like the medical staff poking and prodding him to see where else he hurt. Four cops were eventually called in, one to pin down each limb. They laughed when he said he had been beaten up for no reason while trying to sleep.

“If you were acting as nice as you are now,” one officer joked, “I’m shocked that somebody would want to beat you up.” The sarcasm only infuriated the man further who kept swearing and insisting that he did nothing to provoke the attack.

Two days later, when I was back on the night shift with an excruciating four stitches running up the palm of my left hand, I looked at the newspaper. The man from the hospital bed was on the cover page. Three teenagers had videotaped themselves punching, kicking, throwing beer bottles at, and finally urinating on the man to submit to the Bum Fights website. Somewhere along the way, the tape ended up in the police’s hands. The kids were arrested, charged and eventually found guilty of beating him, unprovoked, as he laid passed out on the street.

I think about that homeless man from time to time. How our paths were crossed that night in the hospital. My left palm still bears the small scar from where I slashed it.

I don’t believe in fate. Not in the proper sense of some omnipresent unstoppable force that guides our lives. I often wonder what would happen if I went to a palm-reader. Apparently there is an art to determining a person’s future from the wrinkles on his hand. Each line tells a tale about love, money, longevity or such things. The healed scar on my hand looks, to me, indistinguishable among the other creases that run up my palm. Would a palm-reader be able to identify the new line as artificial? Would she include it in her interpretation of my future? If she did, had I not then altered fate?

For me fate has much more to do with the institutions around us. Fate is not an inevitable existence, but rather the product of relying on others to determine our existence. Schools, religions, corporations, government – these are the real controllers of fate. Day by day they influence and herd the masses along, leading us very much toward the status quo predictability we recognize as civilization. This, at face value, is not a bad thing. We accomplish more as a species with stability, direction and guidance.

The problem arises when we stop questioning “fate” and switch to auto-pilot. Always doing what you’re told, and doing it well, yields marriage, a couple of kids, suburbia, an unfulfilling job and enough pension to put food on the table until your health runs out. Certainly not a terrible existence, but a wholly unoriginal one.

On the flip side, you don’t want to end up like that homeless man, literally getting pissed on by the system. It’s a complex world. You’re better off putting your head down to work until death than to screw it all and end up with nothing other than a raging drinking problem and a concrete bed. Arguably.

The key is to recognize that to a certain extent, you do directly influence what happens to you – especially if you’re thinking long term. In the day-to-day grind it’s hard to see the bigger picture. You’ve got immediate needs, and the thought of not fulfilling those needs breeds fear and worry. The path of least resistance, while not all that interesting, usually guides us to simple solutions for keeping ourselves alive and healthy. And better yet, if something goes wrong we’re not at fault. We can blame the system, the government, our boss, our parents, whomever.

Taking control of your destiny means taking responsibility for yourself and accepting the consequence. It means taking risks and aiming for a greater happiness than what others have in store for you. After all, these great governing bodies and wise leaders may offer generic possibilities, but deep down inside only you know what you actually want out of your short time on this planet. Succumbing to fears, doubts, laziness or delays is a far crueler reality than pursuing a dream. That doesn’t mean you have to go cliff-diving tomorrow. Dreams do not always entail extreme realities, requiring huge gambles. A dream is as simple as taking that little kernel of aspiration and nurturing it. You can rest assured the Powers That Be are too busy shuffling you along to bother offering the individual attention you deserve.

Whenever I begin to doubt my direction in life, I step back from the immediacy of the situation to analyze the bigger picture. I see how far I’ve come, and envision where I need to go, far removed from the emotions of here and now. It gives me perspective to push through what’s holding me back.

I trace the scar on my palm with a finger. I see where it intersects with the other lines, some larger, some smaller, all subtlety influencing but not ultimately altering its path. I recognize that I created the line. It wasn’t at all pleasant at first, but it’s a part of me now.

I wonder where it will take me. I wonder where I will take me.

A forty-ish black gentleman noticed us from inside the bar. He was sitting alone at the bar, seemingly the only patron. Before the bouncer returned with the verdict, the guy came over to us. He told us he’d just won the lottery. He pointed to his scuffed runners, “jus bought dese today. Cash. Two hundred bones.” Next he lifted up his gold chain, “and dis right here cost me ten large. Bought it today too. Tell you what,” he rubbed his knuckles against his chin, “y’all come inside and drinks is on me all night long.”

“Aren’t drinks only a penny?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Motherfucker, don’t worry about the money, drinks is on me.”

The bouncer stepped outside to inform us it was a no-go for letting the girls in tonight. It was more a relief than anything. Bill was agitated from an early situation involving Kerri-Lynn. He’d asked to exchange numbers with her since they’re both in the Hollywood scene, which she interpreted as an advance. This caused some tension with Nils too, and the whole thing was playing out over text message. The last thing the situation needed was a sketchy guy hovering around us all night paying for our penny beers.

With the bar plan fallen though, the girls invited us back to their apartment. We bought a case of Bud Light on the way. I tried my best to make conversation during the trip, but my body was aching for sleep. I leaned my head against the window. The streetlights drew shadows across our bodies. Eventually we entered a gated community. There was a basketball court on our left.

The short girl pointed, “That’s where the nigs play basketball.”

I lifted my head off the glass, “Nigs? Isn’t that kind of racist?”

“No it’s not racist,” she slapped my leg. “That’s just what we call them.”

“Seriously? That’s what you call them to their face?”

“No,” she pressed her palm against her chest, “we wouldn’t say that to their face.”

“And if you did, do you think that they would be pissed off?”

“Well, duh.”

“Ummm,” I rubbed my temples. “Then doesn’t that make calling them ‘nigs’ racist?”

“No, silly, it’s not racist.” Her friend who was driving called back. Bill laughed from the passenger seat. I pretended to watch out the window until we pulled into a parking spot.

The girls walked us past a few doors until they found their own. “I hope no nigs jump us,” I joked and the girls laughed hard enough for me to believe they didn’t get the sarcasm. Inside the place was nicer than I expected. A large livingroom and kitchen with a bedroom on opposite ends that led to two bathrooms.  Ideal for the college experience.

I took a seat on the large chair in the living room. Sitting sideways with my legs draped over the arm, sleep continued to beckon. The shorter girl handed me a Bud Light and took a seat on the floor beside me. Bill and the taller blond sat together on the couch.

“Come on Chris, be more fun,” Bill scolded from across the table.

“I’m trying, man. I really am. Let me get some beer in me.” I took several gulps of the sub par beer.

Bill stood up, “You know what we need to do? A drinking game.” He clapped his hands together. “This will be so much fun.”

“Ooooh,” the girl beside him agreed. “Let’s play Apple and Oranges. It’s an awesome board game.”

Before I agreed to play, I excused myself outside claiming I had to phone Jace to find out how early we left that morning. In reality, I knew that we left at ten in the morning, later than usual. I just needed to get some fresh air. I walked across the lawn, wearing only my socks, over to some bushes to take a leak. I ran around a bit before opening the door in a feeble attempt to restore wakefulness.

Upon returning inside, I see Bill’s girl standing on the chair arm with Bill excitedly calling me over, “dude, dude, you’re just in time. Check this out.” The girl, balancing on one leg, lifted her other leg up until it was perfectly parallel to her body. Then she touched the ceiling with her toes.

“Wow,” I clapped, “Very impressive.”

“Thanks. I’ve been practicing a lot for the cheer squad.” She jumped down.

The next thing I saw was Bill Dawes pointing at this crotch. Apparently, he had dove in the hotel pool with his jeans on. He put dry jeans on before leaving but not dry boxers. Judging by the underwear shaped wetspot soaking through his jeans, they were still wet now.  Bill asked the tall girl if he could borrow some shorts and put his jeans and boxers in the dryer. They disappeared into the room together.

The other girl explained the rules of the drinking game we were about to play. Every few seconds I would stop her and pretend I didn’t understand on account of being Canadian.

“Okay, so these cards here mean you have chug half a drink.” She’d say.

“Wait, hold on. Chug? We don’t have that word in Canada. What’s it mean?”

“Oh my god, you don’t have chug? It’s like, drink really fast. You know, chug it.”

“Ohhh, you mean like caribou it. That’s what we call it back home. So that card means caribou half a beer, okay continue…”

Once I understood the game, I went on inventing bullshit facts about Canada. We have skis on our cars instead of tires, our women wear skirts over top their snowpants in the summer – those types of things. The universe immediately decided to reign retribution against me for lying. I heard Bill and the girl coming out of her room. She was laughing hysterically. I turned my head to witness one of the most disturbing travesties in the history of humanity.

Bill Dawes dancing in a black and white woman’s silk thong.

“Jesus christ Bill,” I slapped a hand over my eyes.

“What?” He came closer until I almost fell off the chair. “My pants are drying. I needed something to wear.”

I was laughing and utterly terrified all at once, “I swear to god. If anything touches me…” I said wafting at Bill like he was an airborn virus. Granted, at least I was awake now. Bill was gracious enough to wrap a towel around his bulge, no more images of a zebra puffing its cheek out.

“Well that was just awesome. Let’s have a goddamn drink,” I slapped the table, demanding that cards were dealt. The rules kept changing as we played. Sometimes it was truth or dare. The girls and I competed for who was the most vanilla. Bill Dawes, on the other hand, was putting us to shame. When we were done acting like a bunch of 8^th grade shitheads, we got down to business. Each card in the deck represented some form of drinking. My favorite rule was drawing an Ace meant that the first person chugged. The second person couldn’t stop chugging until the first did, and the third until the second, and the fourth until the third had finished. Better yet, Dawes’ girl was next in the rotation after me since we were playing clockwise, and she was seated to Bill’s right. I had man-thong images to erase so I was planning on some heavy drinking. Getting her loaded too was a welcome side-effect for Bill’s cause.

Bill pulled the first Ace. He took three or four big gulps. The girl beside me followed suit, stopping right after him. I kept drinking. And drinking, until the beer was gone. The poor girl beside Bill dropped her Mike’s Hard Lemonade on the table with water pooling under her eyes. It wasn’t long before the next chain-drinking card came up. Another beer down. This time Dawes’ girl had to give up early, which was a clear rules violation. The punishment: more drinking. One deck of cards later, I was four beers deep in a matter of minutes. I was reborn.

We kept drinking until Bill insisted on getting his clothes from the dryer. I also insisted, or more like pleaded. Bill and the tall girl were gone for a few minutes. I was much more talkative now. Although, I was pretty certain I’d stepped in dog shit or something equally as fowl while walking in my socks outside. The girl beside me was a good sport while I bragged on and on about times I got drunk. Meanwhile, I was enjoying my second life by swigging back more Bud Light.

Bill, thankfully wearing pants, and the taller girl emerged from the laundry room. They took a seat and we resumed drinking. Though by this point I didn’t give a shit about the game, but rather concerned myself with pouring as much awful light beer down my throat as possible. The buzz was all the separated me from a total breakdown.

My cell phone signaled a text message in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting some form of bad news. Instead, it was Bill writing me from five feet away. “Blondie is driving us back. I wanna make a move then.”

I texted back , “Cool. Think she’ll go for it?”

A few seconds later, “We hardcore made out but don’t know.”

“She seems into you.”

“Help”

I saw Bill smile as he pushed send. He said to the girl beside me while pointing at me, “Hey, you guys should kiss or something. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You both get laid?”

“I’m not getting laid tonight,” the girl proudly announced. “I’ve got a tampon in.”

“Well that’s classy,” I was already opening my phone again.

I sent one final text, “You concentrate on your girl. I’ll distract Tampon.”

We drank some more, but the games had died off. I couldn’t maintain my current level of drunkness without the necessary support systems. When I felt fatigue sinking its claws into me, I suggested we all head back. It was close to four in the morning. Bill and the tall blonde took their seats in the front. I sat in the back with the other girl, conversing politely while thinking about menstration. When we got to the hotel, I bolted for the lobby bathroom to piss. Tampon girl also had to use the facilities in emergency fashion. When I came out, Bill was trying his best to convince his girl to spend the night.

“No I don’t think I can,” the girl whined. “I have class tomorrow and I can’t just leave my friend stranded.”

Bill looked over at me, desperate for assistance.

“Look,” I said, “she can stay in our room. There’s probably an extra bed. And I’m sure we can bother Jaimee for a spare tampon in the morning.” Both girls frowned, and simple pleasantries, hugs and whatnot, were exchanged before they headed out. I was crashing hard. Bill walked over to me, “what the fuck, dude? I’m disappointed in you.”

“Sorry. I tried,” I said, walking in the opposite direction toward my room.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Bill called behind me. “You let me down Griffin.”

“I don’t fucking care,” I shouted without looking back. The only thing I cared about was finding my bed.