Dirtbag
MY FUN DAYS ARE OVER
We go to Club Raine even though Fergus bitches the entire way over. The wait in line isn’t that long, which is disappointing. I always hope we’ll stand in line so long that whatever club we venture to that night will close. It’s a one-to-nine chance.
Once we get inside we figure out that, for the most part, Fergus’ foretelling was correct. This excites Hanson, bores me, and makes Fergus erupt into a fit of the cold sweats. I grab us the beers.
“Hanson’s missing out, ya know,” Fergus tells me. Our third member of the party is gone. No surprise. “Becky’s a good chick and I’m a lucky guy to have her. It’s not every day you meet a girl who’s down to smoke.”
“Mhm,” is my reply. Other than weed, Becky is the only thing Fergus ever talks about. It gets old after a while.
“Plus she has a nice rack. For a B-cup, I mean.”
It’s when Fergus starts going on about Becky’s psycho ass that I see her. She’s dancing around, swiveling her hips back and forth. She is obviously aware of the trance her dance partner is being pulled into. Out of nowhere she pushes him back and starts to dance on her own, as if having a partner is a bad thing.
“That chick,” Hanson appears out of nowhere and nods in the direction of the girl I've been staring at, “rejected me. Twice. Who the fuck rejects a face like this?”
“Maybe you’re just trying too hard,” Fergus suggests. This is clearly not the right thing to say. Hanson gets ticked off whenever someone points out his insecurities. His way of ignoring this comment is snatching the beer from Fergus’ hands and downing it. He then takes a shot.
I hate it when Hanson gets like this, which is only on his bad nights. I don’t worry about him—he can take care of his own sorry ass—but it gets annoying. He always bitches and whines about not getting a girl. Clearly, girls don’t fall for horny bastards like Hanson.
“We should leave,” I say. I've come to the decision that even if they disagree, I’ll head out by myself. The stench of sweat and vomit is too much. Not to mention the fact that I’m tired and have to wake up in five hours.
“Daddy won’t want you coming in late, eh?” Hanson prods. I can already feel my jaw tighten and my fists squeeze. I only shrug. Hanson doesn't understand anything about keeping a full-time job and having responsibilities. These are things normal twenty-three year olds have now-a-days.
“What I don’t understand,” Fergus pipes up, “is that you hate marketing, so why stay?”
“I don’t hate marketing,” I lie. “I just don’t like anything, really, so I’ve got to stick with this shit.”
“It’s a fallback,” Hanson says and this pisses me off because he’s right yet again. “You’re making your fallback your first priority. Isn't that some kind of sick shit?”
“Whatever,” I mumble. I don’t wait for their answer to my first question. I leave.
Once we get inside we figure out that, for the most part, Fergus’ foretelling was correct. This excites Hanson, bores me, and makes Fergus erupt into a fit of the cold sweats. I grab us the beers.
“Hanson’s missing out, ya know,” Fergus tells me. Our third member of the party is gone. No surprise. “Becky’s a good chick and I’m a lucky guy to have her. It’s not every day you meet a girl who’s down to smoke.”
“Mhm,” is my reply. Other than weed, Becky is the only thing Fergus ever talks about. It gets old after a while.
“Plus she has a nice rack. For a B-cup, I mean.”
It’s when Fergus starts going on about Becky’s psycho ass that I see her. She’s dancing around, swiveling her hips back and forth. She is obviously aware of the trance her dance partner is being pulled into. Out of nowhere she pushes him back and starts to dance on her own, as if having a partner is a bad thing.
“That chick,” Hanson appears out of nowhere and nods in the direction of the girl I've been staring at, “rejected me. Twice. Who the fuck rejects a face like this?”
“Maybe you’re just trying too hard,” Fergus suggests. This is clearly not the right thing to say. Hanson gets ticked off whenever someone points out his insecurities. His way of ignoring this comment is snatching the beer from Fergus’ hands and downing it. He then takes a shot.
I hate it when Hanson gets like this, which is only on his bad nights. I don’t worry about him—he can take care of his own sorry ass—but it gets annoying. He always bitches and whines about not getting a girl. Clearly, girls don’t fall for horny bastards like Hanson.
“We should leave,” I say. I've come to the decision that even if they disagree, I’ll head out by myself. The stench of sweat and vomit is too much. Not to mention the fact that I’m tired and have to wake up in five hours.
“Daddy won’t want you coming in late, eh?” Hanson prods. I can already feel my jaw tighten and my fists squeeze. I only shrug. Hanson doesn't understand anything about keeping a full-time job and having responsibilities. These are things normal twenty-three year olds have now-a-days.
“What I don’t understand,” Fergus pipes up, “is that you hate marketing, so why stay?”
“I don’t hate marketing,” I lie. “I just don’t like anything, really, so I’ve got to stick with this shit.”
“It’s a fallback,” Hanson says and this pisses me off because he’s right yet again. “You’re making your fallback your first priority. Isn't that some kind of sick shit?”
“Whatever,” I mumble. I don’t wait for their answer to my first question. I leave.