Brew

by Bill Braddock

  She kept looping back to the high school thing. "I just got sick of the bullshit, you know? I couldn’t handle it. I mean, it was all so stupid."

  "Yeah, I got you," Steve said. "Watch it." He tugged her arm, steering her away from a puddle where someone, probably a freshman or an alum, had already puked. It was early, but town was already roaring with drunks. They wallowed in packs, hooting and shoving, and lined balconies, pumping kegs and catcalling girls below and chanting the Cougar fight song. College Heights, victorious again. Hip-hip-hooray.

  They cut between the church and its rectory, passed through a thin hedgerow, and dipped down the embankment into the back of the fifteen-story high rise, Gable Arms.

  "I started out in the dorms," Steve said as they climbed the stairs. "Then I lived in a couple different places, houses, mainly. I’ve been here for almost a year."

  "Nice place," she said. She smiled, but Steve thought he saw something else there, too. Resentment, maybe? Did she have a chip for rich kids, like he had when he first came to Toyland? Or had he just imagined this dark flicker? After all, he had already packed and burned an eighth of quality weed. Reaching the third floor, he pushed into the corridor, and halfway down the hall, he pulled out his keys. "This is me," he said. Once they were inside, Steve locked the door and flicked the living room light. "Have a seat," he said, heading for the kitchen. "Beer?"

  "Sure," she said. "Please."

  As Steve opened the fridge, his cell vibrated. He glanced at the screen. Jessie again. Her third call in the last hour. He ignored this one, too, and saw she’d left another message. Grand. Well, she’d just have to wait. He thumbed the cell to silent and shoved it into his pocket. He’d get to it when he got to it.

  He pulled two beers out of the fridge and went back to the living room, where Cat sat on the couch, flipping through Steve’s copy of Fingerprints of the Gods. "Thanks," she said, taking the beer. "Miller Lite, huh? According to my roommates, drinking anything but Cougar piss is a crime in this town."

  "Guilty as charged. Cougar’s overrated, you ask me."

  She made a noncommittal grunt that didn’t tip her hand. "I love this book."

  "You read Fingerprints?"

  She nodded, taking a sip. "Couple of years ago." She returned the book to the coffee table. "I loved all the stuff about the Antarctic, all those old maps, the interior mountain ranges."

  "Yeah, that was cool stuff. You believe it? I haven’t finished the book yet. Almost but not quite." He sat across from her in his recliner. "So what do think about 2012, the end of the world, all that?"

  "It’s bullshit," she said. Then, with a grin: "But it’s cool bullshit."

  "I know this one guy," Steve said, "Wolfe… he thinks everybody experiences the apocalypse, like full blown, Judgment Day style. So let’s say you’re reading the paper, and you see where some old man died peacefully at home on Friday. Or some Sunday, your neighbor goes to plug in the toaster and gets fried. The way Wolfe sees it, those people never experienced those things. I don’t have it all straight—he’s kind of nuts—but it has to do with arrays of time and experience. Wait." He held up one hand. "So, like, we’re both together now, both of us agree, more or less on big stuff, like the date and the weather and everything, right?"

  She tipped her beer. Carry on.

  "Well, when it’s your time to go, you just take a left or a right or whatever, and in your world, trumpets kick up, seas boil, the moon goes red. I’m talking epic Four Horseman shit. So you go through the whole thing, whatever that means, and you end up in heaven or hell or wherever, just like that. But for the rest of us, like your friends and family and everything, we’re with you up to the last day, and then we go off in a different direction, and on that thread, you just happen to play in traffic or ignore the Do Not Feed the Animals sign. Get it?"

  Cat nodded. "Our own little apocalypse. For your buddy, ‘the world revolves around me’ isn’t enough. It’s the world and the end of the world. Now that’s what I call delusions of grandeur."

  Steve laughed and considered telling her about this funny cartoon he’d read in a Playboy he’d found in the dump near his house when he was a kid, this psychiatrist in his chair, and this other guy stretched out on the couch, all distraught with a three foot pecker in his hands, saying, "You call this delusions of grandeur?" but then Cat closed the book and leaned back, looking him in the eyes. "So how about the Kodak?"

  Steve took a drink. "Hmm. I don’t know. Sounds a little less than legal."

  "Illegal? Oh, you mean like giving a nineteen-year-old a beer?"

  "Touché," Steve said. "Not fuse? Most people come knocking these days, it’s for fuse."

  People raved about fuse. They took it in pairs and claimed to melt into one another’s essences. They reported emotional telepathy. Some even claimed to access their partner’s memories, but then again, some people smoked weed and claimed to see trailers. Steve didn’t care what it did, as long as nobody got hurt. His chemist had created fuse, actually invented it, and Steve had exclusivity. Fuse could make him rich.

  Cat shook her head. "No fuse for me. No offense, but it sounds a little weak, you know? Needy? I don’t mind tripping with somebody, but tripping in somebody? No thanks."

  "Agreed." He leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his head. "Look, I want to help you out, but I have to be careful. How do I know you’re not a cop?"

  Cat laughed. "Yeah, right. Do I look like a cop?"

  They were getting down to it. "Could be you got into a little trouble, the cops back in Philly, they say ‘you help us, we help you...’" He grinned, letting her see what he was up to, feeling her out.

  She shook her head, but she smiled, too. "Not me. I’m squeaky clean."

  Steve took a drink, swallowed, waited. "How do I know you’re not wearing a wire?"

  Cat looked him in the eyes—Steve saw no fear there—put her beer on the coffee table, and stood. "You mean, like under my shirt?"

  "It’s a possibility."

  She slipped out of her flannel, moving slowly, and let it drop to the floor. Then, lifting her arms, she did a slow pirouette, every inch of her lean, lithe, and tenuous in the dim lamplight. "See," she said. "No wire."

  Steve saw he’d been right, earlier, about her ass. A+. She smiled over one shoulder, watching him take her in with his eyes, and he realized his dick was rock hard.

  He said, "What about the top? Technology’s getting smaller all the time."

  "Right," she said, and laughed. Then she peeled off her top, revealing a black bra and a dancer’s body, everything firm yet fluid. A gold ring winked from her belly button. She turned slowly. "Feel better?"

  "What about those pants?"

  Still facing away, she unbuttoned her cargo pants and let them drop to the floor. The thong didn’t surprise him. The ass did. It was even better than he’d thought.

  She faced him, hands on hips, chin tilted upward. Dim lamplight sparkled against the belly button ring, shone along the dewy perspiration on her throat, and cast shadows in her collarbones and cleavage. "You gonna frisk me? Make sure I’m not packing a gun and badge?"

  "Might be a good idea," he said, setting his beer down.

  Cat leaned forward, placing her palms flat against the big window and spreading her legs wide. Her ass tilted up toward him, and she looked at him over one shoulder. "Come on, then," she said. "Pat me down."

  Steve swallowed hard. He crossed the room and placed his hands lightly on her warm, smooth skin, feeling her ribs, hard against his fingertips. One of her hands came away from the window and pressed his hand onto her ass so that his fingers wrapped the inner curve to her upper thigh. She was smooth and warm and firm.

  "Frisk me," she said, and there was a challenge in her voice. "Come on. Harder."

  Steve breathed in through his nose, smelling her warmth and a faint floral aroma. He pushed his hand forward, and through the thin fabric he could feel her, soft and swollen, warm and wet. Her hair had fallen dark across her upp
er face, but he could see her mouth, see her red lips part, the white teeth spreading, the pink tongue darting out between them. She exhaled, a little tremble in her breath.

  Then she pushed away from the window, glanced at the clock, and said, "It’s 11:11… make a wish."

  Chapter 4

  Downhill from Steve’s apartment, in a bar adjacent to the Cougars Den, Herbert Weston was smiling. The Gingerbread House catered to College Heights’ elite, gaggles of blond girls and broad shouldered, well-tanned young men who looked like they’d stepped straight out of Abercrombie & Fitch ads. The Gingerbread House did not cater so readily, it appeared, to a skinny, pale, pimply guy sitting by himself, wearing a puffy jacket and glasses, and smiling like he was gathering an eyeful before going home to jerk off…because Herbert had been waiting for over thirty minutes without a visit from the waitress. Thirty-three minutes, in fact. Of this, Herbert was absolutely certain. This night, he was acutely aware of time. With every ticking second, Herbert felt the laughter building inside him.

  He’d eaten shit for years. Tonight, he was shitting back.

  When his watch read 10:45, he laughed aloud.

  The blondes at the table next to him shared looks and started laughing. Herbert grinned at them so hard his glasses rode up his nose.

  At last, the waitress arrived, trying to smile. "Hello, sir. Welcome to the Gingerbread House. How are you tonight?"

  "I am superb," Herbert said, conspicuously eyeing her name tag, "Wendy."

  Wendy managed to smile, even as Herbert stared at her tits. Truth be told, he didn’t give a damn about her or her tits. He was just having a little fun testing Wendy’s professional resolve. She was a trooper. "Our specials tonight are —"

  Herbert interrupted with a twist of the wrist. "That won’t be necessary, Wendy. I know just what I want."

  "Great. What can I get for you?"

  "When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? I’ll have a pitcher of Cougar piss."

  "Cougar beer? A pitcher?"

  "That’s the ticket, Wendy old girl. Pitcher of that. And a frosty mug if you’ve got one. I’m in a grand mood tonight."

  She told him that was good and that she’d be right back, then crossed the crowded floor, pausing halfway to the bar at a table of beaming meatheads.

  It was crazy, drinking beer here, absolutely nuts, but Herbert felt like taking some risks tonight, and all along, he’d planned on being here, right here at ground zero, when it all went down. He glanced at his watch. Oh, yes. He was right where he wanted to be.

  Wendy returned, smiling a little more genuinely and carrying a pitcher of beer. He wondered if maybe she’d spit in it. No, he decided. Not good old Wendy. She’d probably just gone back there and had a hoot with the bartenders and waitresses. Check out the guy in the corner. That whole thing. Well, that was just fine. Herbert smiled right back at Wendy and gave her tits one more glance for old times’ sake.

  "I’m sorry, sir, but we’re out of mugs. Is a cup okay?"

  "Perfecto, Wendy," Herbert said, and handed her a twenty. "Keep the change."

  She stared at the bill then really smiled. "Thanks!"

  He smiled back. Meatheads were so predictable, so easy to manipulate.

  Wendy thanked him again and left.

  Filling his cup, Herbert pictured beer sloshing into his stomach, flooding over the pill he’d taken earlier that night. He imagined the yellow tablet spinning in beer and fizzing like an Alka-Seltzer, breaking down and filtering through his stomach into his bloodstream, chugging along to his brain, where it would lock the hypothalamic receptors armor just in time. He pictured gray neural webbing going golden, a yellow plaque spreading along the myelin-sheathed axons, armoring his mind against the coming assault. The image was both faulty and enjoyable. He’d taken the pill early enough to ensure full prophylactic action, of course. He felt like taking risks, but he wasn’t crazy.

  Herbert sipped his beer and ran his thumb over the rough handle of the pistol tucked in his waistband. It was a 9mm Glock 17 stuffed with dum-dum rounds that would flare beautifully on impact. Behind him, slung against his spine, was his toy, an HK MP5 9mm Parabellum with a thirty-round clip he could empty in just over two seconds. Quite a spray. His beloved peashooter, a Ruger target pistol with a heavy, bulled barrel, hung in his shoulder holster. The weight of it felt good. The Ruger lacked stopping power, but .22-caliber rounds, unlike higher caliber loads that blew straight through a person, often bounced around inside a target’s torso, tearing holes in all sorts of lovely organs. At the shooting range he visited weekly, the pistol’s long barrel allowed him to fire consistently tight groupings at fifty yards. That was something. Oh yes, it was.

  So Herbert sat in his corner and smiled to himself and sipped the beer, hating the taste but loving the moment, and enjoyed the feel of firearms pressing against his body like the hands of a rough lover. And as his waitress rounded the far end of the bar, pausing momentarily to flirt with a big smiley guy in a rugby shirt, Herbert checked the time.

  Eight minutes past eleven!

  He giggled, knocked back the last of his beer, and turned to the blondes gabbing away at the adjacent table. The closest one had her back to him. Blond hair, tanned shoulders, a blue tank top.

  Herbert tapped her shoulder. She turned to face him, her conversation smile lingering.

  "You know," Herbert said, "you really ought to stay out of places like this."

  Her smile drooped in confusion.

  "Sometimes," he said, "people just go crazy in places like this."

  "Um…okay," the girl said. She smiled again, looking at him like he was crazy, and turned back to her friends, who first went silent, then burst into laughter. The sound of their laughter—and knowing it was directed at him—would have normally filled Herbert with rage, but tonight he found it beautiful and epic and tragic. These tall, athletic blondes were Valkyries! Their laughter was singing! Herbert laughed and sprayed beer onto the table.

  This got the girls going again, and then they were all laughing together. Feeling foam drip from his mouth, Herbert glanced at his watch—11:10!—and one of the girls leaned toward him, yelling, "She likes you!" She smiled with mock encouragement, pointing at her friend and nodding at Herbert like he was an idiot. The girl beside her, a doughy not-quite-pretty girl who had probably been downright ugly in high school, laughed so hard she spit beer onto her table, too.

  Herbert stood, reached into his jacket, and said, "Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t fuck corpses."

  Chapter 5

  The Cougars Den boiled with life, everybody stoked over the big win. Just before eleven o’clock, Liz finally reached the bar. She’d hung back and let others go ahead of her until Jimmy was open. "Hi," she said, sliding her empty glass across the wet bar and leaning there, trying to pull the old cleavage trick. She didn’t think of herself as pretty, but her boobs were all right. With all the weight she’d been packing on, they were the biggest they’d ever been. She pressed them into the bar and smiled.

  "What can I do for you, doll?" Jimmy asked.

  Doll? She smiled. What a cheesy thing to say. But, God was he cute. He could get away with saying just about anything.

  "I’d like a melon ball and two beers, please," she said.

  "On it," he said, and turned.

  She watched him mix her drink, pouring the emerald green melon liqueur, every motion smooth and effortless. As he poured the beers, he reached out and high-fived a huge kid Liz recognized from the football programs. Dozier or Delozier or something like that, she thought. Maybe Jimmy would introduce her to him. No—but he was back, sitting the drinks down before her.

  "Eight and a quarter, please."

  "Eight and a—oh…" Liz flushed and again went to digging awkwardly in her purse. Gabbie had said they were on the house. So that meant Jimmy hadn’t recognized her. Ugh, how awful. Should she say something? I’m with Jackie? No…

  "Sorry," she said and smiled.

  Mercifully, he smiled
back. "No problem." Then she heard him taking another order, telling the guy no problem, just a sec.

  Finally she dragged a nest of cash, mostly ones, from her purse. She’d been spending so much money since moving in with the girls and had to see about getting more hours at the bookstore. Forcing a smile, she peeled a ten from the wad and handed it to Jimmy, telling him to keep the change.

  "Thanks," he said, and was gone.

  She stepped away, and someone filled the gap, blocking her view. As she cut through the crowd, she heard the tip bell ring, and then she was excusing herself and doing her best to shield the drinks.

  The girls were already talking to a pair, no, a trio, of cute guys. Gabbie broke from the table to intercept the beers. "Lezzie, dahling," she said, loud as ever. One of the guys chuckled, looking Liz up and down. She smiled.

  He smiled back.

  And suddenly she was so glad she hadn’t talked to Stat Boy.

  "You guys work fast," Liz said to Gabbie, keeping her voice low.

  "What, these bitches?" Gabbie said, not keeping her voice low at all. "We know them from high school. Fucked ‘em all. Teeny dicks."

  The guy who’d smiled at Liz rolled his eyes and laughed, then twiddled a finger around his ear. He leaned close, and Liz smelled nice cologne. "She’s crazy!"

  Liz nodded. He was speaking directly to her!

  "Guys," Gabbie said, "allow me to introduce our little sex slave, Lizzie. She’s a cock-starved maniac. Who wants blown?"

  Liz flushed again, laughing, and Jackie brought her beer glass down hard on Gabbie’s head. The glass shattered, spraying beer, and Gabbie dropped.

  One of the boys slammed his fist into Jackie’s face, and she flew backward over the neighboring table, where a cluster of girls looked to be clawing each other’s eyes out.

  The place roared. Everyone was screaming…and fighting.

  Liz gaped. It wasn’t real…couldn’t be…this…nothing…