Left-Handed

I was his breathalyzer. Tonight I was sure he’d managed a new feat in breaking past the legal BAC limit floodgates; I just hoped he couldn’t get me drunk on his saliva.

“How’d you get so smashed?”

“Oh, well it was the spittle, see...”

Only problem here is that I’d be considered underage. I could see the cop scratching down my answers to his questions even now in the midst of such ridiculous happenings.

“Is this your boyfriend, kid?”

“No, sir. That one’s Emma’s.”

“I’m sorry, kid, but we’re gonna have to arrest you. We all wish it weren’t the law, but it is and always has been.”

Swing those handcuffs, officer! (And get rid of that stereotypical mountain ranger mustache I’ve painted on you as well. It’s not quite doing you justice, I’m afraid.)

But despite it being a floor in his house that we were currently sprawled across, not even his dad had managed to stumble upon this recent development in our friendship. And honestly, it was really his dad’s fault to begin with. What motto was Joe constantly preaching? “Beer liberates the soul!” All poor Joe had managed to accomplish over the years, however, was enslave his liver and liberate his gut simultaneously.

The fifteenth birthday:

“Congratulations, son, you now have access to my beer! Go on and liberate your soul every once in a while.”

But I’m doubtful as to whether liberating his soul was meant to include transforming a good listener and better friend into what you might call a weird sort of comfort blanket. After all, only the best “blankies” absorbed your drool on contact.
“Hey, it’s ten-thirty! Isn’t that your curfew?” I heard Joe yell from the first floor, where he was most likely situated on the recliner in front of the television.
Unfortunately, he was right. It was time for me to go, and I was somewhat pleased about it. Not that I didn’t enjoy swapping spit with Drew, but it did make things awkward on my part. And because I obviously wasn’t going to bring it up with him sober or actually mention it ever, I wasn’t going to get any explanations from him either.

Did the alcohol provide some extra memory bank only to be used in times of drunkenness? Sorry, only the shit-faced can access this? Not that I’m resentful or anything...
Pushing ourselves up off the rough carpet, I heard Drew groan slightly with the effort. He looked slightly wobbly once he’d gotten to his feet, but after a short moment on the brink of mortal peril he succeeded in steadying himself enough to swipe a loose strand of hair behind his ear without falling over.
“Well, see you.”
“Yeah.”
As I turned for the door I felt a gentle push against my lower back. A cursory glance over the shoulder revealed a strangely flirty smirk plastered across Drew’s face. Christ, this kid was wasted as hell. Well at least the more alcohol he consumed, the more credible the spare memory bank theory became; I would probably start endorsing it as my professional opinion soon.

I was getting better at thinking rational thoughts when I left him now (numero tres!), as opposed to the massive entanglement of trembling-reflections-trying-to-bring-themselves-to-conclusions-but-failing-horribly that I’d experienced following the past two instances. By this time around I seemed to have hit my stride and showed it by skimming my fingers along the banister’s surface as I stepped rather springlike down Drew’s staircase.
Waving at Joe’s back silently, I headed out the front door only to realize that I was going to get wet on the way back home. And this, this was my great return to bike riding since the last time I got rained on. And the time before that when I was rained on. I had a feeling that somebody up there was trying to get it across to me that I had a high risk for death by drowning. I wasn’t stupid; I could read nature’s signs.
One of those kids who actually wore and appreciated the protection of helmets, I lowered mine onto my head and buckled the strap quickly. If it wasn’t drowning it could very well be a slippery road.

Blasted the kick stand, kicked off the blasted driveway and was off! Both droplets of rain and the speed at which I rode altered the clean suburban homes to either side of me into what could be likened to a Gaussian blur. I almost imagined that the night wind was doing the same to me, softening my lines until I was just a wisp of molecules above the bike. That’s me, just floating any which way.
Floating on...home! I brought my bike to a halt using my favored method—dragging feet—and hauled it up toward the garage door where it would rest until I put it away at some later date.

As I knew even before I tripped on the step leading into my house, my mom was on the lookout. She would have been since the exact second it had turned 10:30 p.m. It was her nature to not let anything slip by unnoticed, and as I was approximately twelve hasty minutes overdue, I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome akin to that of the prodigal son.
“Bed. Now,” she spoke curtly and upon surveying my state of entry added, “Get moving, you’re dripping all over my clean floor. And put those clothes in the dryer, will you.”
I knew it was better not to say anything, so I wordlessly slipped off my sneakers and began to trudge up the nearby (thankfully) stairs to fall asleep before she could properly tell me off for daring to break my curfew.

“Martha, do you have to be so harsh?” I heard my dad say quietly from back in the kitchen.
“I wasn’t being harsh. I was just enforcing a rule.”
“I’m only saying...just Drew’s...was only twelve minutes...”
I didn’t care to listen to the rest of their conversation, as I’d heard it all before plenty of times. My dad was the pacifier. He was so non-belligerent, actually, that I bet he was in league with the town officials that recently imposed a pointless ban on musical chairs in schools. Why, if you lost at that you might feel isolated and sad! Though, of course I was grateful to him for keeping my mom mostly in check all these years. Then there’d be no chance of me drowning unless she was the one to cause it.

***
I was now absolutely convinced that I’d been insane for taking this job. Scratch that. Who wouldn’t want to work at a clothing store chock full of shopping crazed teenage girls? Okay, to be fair, Hollister did have the occasional guy come in, but at least they didn’t seem to be intent on bothering the hell out of me.
And they didn’t eye me with malevolence, as this girl seemed to be doing. The pulled back blonde hair, the look of superiority, and the flash of eyes on my nametag gave away everything. I knew she wasn’t going to use my name already; they liked to think of you not as a person but as some object that absorbed all of their complaints and then made everything better.

“Do you have any more of these in a size small? This one is ripped,” she said, eyeing me disdainfully.
“I’ll go check the back,” I sighed, more to get away from her than anything. I knew already that we didn’t have any more, having hung the last batch of that particular t-shirt print on the rack myself only this morning.
As I passed by Mel on my way I saw her stifle a giggle behind a stand of clothes, so I shot her a dirty look in return. How was it that she avoided their wrath so much more easily than I?
Returning to my position behind the counter, I squeezed out a “Nope, you’re not in luck, there’s no more.” There it was again, that scornful attitude, and then she turned on her heel without saying a word.
Mel walked over and slid behind the counter, twirling her hair in mock parody and prodding me. “Maybe it’s the lip ring,” she sniggered.

“Maybe what’s the lip ring, hmm?” I asked, reasonably sure of what she was talking about, but wondering all the same.
She pushed me slightly and replied, “Well it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? They hate you.”
“Now I think that’s a rather sweeping generalization. They don’t all hate me,” I countered.
“Just most of them, right?”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed, a smile curving the corners of my mouth skyward. “At least you probably own something from here, am I right?”

Mel shook the plastic box of Chap Stick next to the register, reaching into her pocket with her other hand to pull out an identical stick, indicating that they were one and the same. “Only this one I stole earlier today, but you didn’t hear that.” She pressed an index finger to her lips, adding emphasis to what I understood as a sign to not tell the manager.
“Oh come on, you couldn’t even have used your store credit for that?” I looked at her incredulously, not quite believing she was that cheap.
She immediately defended herself by saying, “Hey, I’m saving up for that Minor Threat jacket I saw in Vintage Vinyl!”

I smacked a palm to my forehead; how could I have forgotten? It had practically become her goal in life to obtain that jacket these past two weeks, much like it had become Drew’s goal to have absolutely no idea what he was doing at all times. Fortunately he hadn’t moved on to drugs, for now anyway.
I was close to wishing that he had, because then I could be doubtless about his consciousness, or lack there of. Maybe then I could give up hope and get it all over with.
Apparently seeing that I had gotten lost in my mind, perhaps dangerously, Mel tried to drag my thoughts out of my skull. “Whatchya thinkin’ about?”

“I’ve just figured out what I’m going to get Drew for his birthday or Christmas or whatever: a Squall action figure.” I put on a gleeful grin, but that was a complete lie. I’d already been planning on buying him one for the last four months.
“Oh, how lovely!”