18 & Life
Corona
Dave’s neighbors threw away an ugly plaid couch once. The loose springs made sitting nearly impossible, but it wasn’t exactly lost.
They had left it on the sidewalk beside both of their trash bins—left it waiting for the truck—and as soon as Dave saw it, he knew he had to take it home. Just to feel something belonged to him.
He ended up putting it in the back of the backyard, behind his brother’s old Tsuru.
He and Rick drink their booze there when they have nothing better to do, which is always.
As Dave walks out of his main door with two cold Corona’s in his hand, Rick stares at his splattered boots, sitting on the ugly couch’s backrest. The whisky has dried out now, leaving large, viscous stains.
He lifts his left arm in a 90 degree angle, with his fist close to his chin, and watches the sleeve of his jacket.
The leather is only a little scratched.
Dad had thrown him to the floor over the Whisky glass before he and Dave finally left. The man instantly looked regretful, but never said sorry. He just walked back inside and closed the door behind him.
Now Rick has a small cut on the back of his neck, but the damage was mostly shielded by the thick leather jacket.
He feels a small pat on his other shoulder, and looks at it to find a transpiring Corona bottle hitting his shoulder repeatedly. Dave doesn’t stop hitting him with it until Rick finally grabs it.
Dave sits on the arm-rest of the couch and gulps his beer. He’s taking his time to enjoy the taste. It’s not his favorite, but it’s alright. Beer is always either alright or great.
Beside him, Rick examines the beer bottle like he did half an hour ago to the spiced apple and cinnamon-flavored whisky in his own house.
His then own house.
With a small frown, he places the bottle to his lips and tips his head back to have a long gulp, not bothering to enjoy the taste. Until he downs half of it, he doesn’t stop.
Dave chuckles suddenly, shaking his head. Rick doesn’t want to ask what’s funny, but Dave glances at him with a grin on his face and chuckles some more.
Ricky holds the beer bottle on his knee.
“‘You won’t see me again, you ffffucker. That’s a promise,’” he says, imitating Ricky’s voice with mock drama. Rick shrugs. “So did you mean it? You’re homeless now?”
“Yeah, well, wasn’t I always?”
Dave lets out a chuckle. “No,” he says in a question tone. “Man, homeless. You know what that even means? No roof over your head. No bed room. No TV. No stolen scotch.” Rick shrugs again. “Where’re you even gonna stay?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure that out.”
Dave takes a small drink from his beer and shakes his head at the side of his house. He lets out another chuckle. “Man, why did you even do that? Drop the whisky like that?”
“I don’t know, man,” Rick answers, rubbing at his nose to cover whatever hints of irritation in his gesture—so he thinks. He wants to talk about everything but his dad and his shitty whisky. Everything. Even his mom, if he wishes. He’s that irritated. Rick drinks from his beer again and stares at the yellow wall in front of them. “I just know I’m not sorry.”
For a minute, Dave sobers up. His voice drops an octave. “So did you do it because you care for your old man deep down, or because you didn’t want him to have the booze if you couldn’t have it?”
Rick licks his lips and nears the beer bottle to his lips again. Before drinking he says, “I did it because I could, I guess.”
He lies, though. And both of Dave’s suggestions swirl in his head.
They had left it on the sidewalk beside both of their trash bins—left it waiting for the truck—and as soon as Dave saw it, he knew he had to take it home. Just to feel something belonged to him.
He ended up putting it in the back of the backyard, behind his brother’s old Tsuru.
He and Rick drink their booze there when they have nothing better to do, which is always.
As Dave walks out of his main door with two cold Corona’s in his hand, Rick stares at his splattered boots, sitting on the ugly couch’s backrest. The whisky has dried out now, leaving large, viscous stains.
He lifts his left arm in a 90 degree angle, with his fist close to his chin, and watches the sleeve of his jacket.
The leather is only a little scratched.
Dad had thrown him to the floor over the Whisky glass before he and Dave finally left. The man instantly looked regretful, but never said sorry. He just walked back inside and closed the door behind him.
Now Rick has a small cut on the back of his neck, but the damage was mostly shielded by the thick leather jacket.
He feels a small pat on his other shoulder, and looks at it to find a transpiring Corona bottle hitting his shoulder repeatedly. Dave doesn’t stop hitting him with it until Rick finally grabs it.
Dave sits on the arm-rest of the couch and gulps his beer. He’s taking his time to enjoy the taste. It’s not his favorite, but it’s alright. Beer is always either alright or great.
Beside him, Rick examines the beer bottle like he did half an hour ago to the spiced apple and cinnamon-flavored whisky in his own house.
His then own house.
With a small frown, he places the bottle to his lips and tips his head back to have a long gulp, not bothering to enjoy the taste. Until he downs half of it, he doesn’t stop.
Dave chuckles suddenly, shaking his head. Rick doesn’t want to ask what’s funny, but Dave glances at him with a grin on his face and chuckles some more.
Ricky holds the beer bottle on his knee.
“‘You won’t see me again, you ffffucker. That’s a promise,’” he says, imitating Ricky’s voice with mock drama. Rick shrugs. “So did you mean it? You’re homeless now?”
“Yeah, well, wasn’t I always?”
Dave lets out a chuckle. “No,” he says in a question tone. “Man, homeless. You know what that even means? No roof over your head. No bed room. No TV. No stolen scotch.” Rick shrugs again. “Where’re you even gonna stay?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure that out.”
Dave takes a small drink from his beer and shakes his head at the side of his house. He lets out another chuckle. “Man, why did you even do that? Drop the whisky like that?”
“I don’t know, man,” Rick answers, rubbing at his nose to cover whatever hints of irritation in his gesture—so he thinks. He wants to talk about everything but his dad and his shitty whisky. Everything. Even his mom, if he wishes. He’s that irritated. Rick drinks from his beer again and stares at the yellow wall in front of them. “I just know I’m not sorry.”
For a minute, Dave sobers up. His voice drops an octave. “So did you do it because you care for your old man deep down, or because you didn’t want him to have the booze if you couldn’t have it?”
Rick licks his lips and nears the beer bottle to his lips again. Before drinking he says, “I did it because I could, I guess.”
He lies, though. And both of Dave’s suggestions swirl in his head.