Cliff scoffed. “I don’t need a lecture from a substitute teacher. I make more money by March than you make all year. You’re as pathetic as these other losers.”
“Guys, not now,” Blake said.
But Charlie had already lost it. “Okay fatty, how about I take you outside and stomp a mud hole in your ass?” It took a lot to push his buttons, but he could throw down if he had to.
“I’ve got better things to do,” Cliff retorted and smacked the stripper’s bottom. “You up for a dance, little girl?” The high school dropout was, and she led the jerk away to skillfully dry-hump hundreds of dollars out of him in record time.
“Don’t sweat it, he made some bad trades and lost a ton of money this week,” Blake said.
“No. He’s an ass, but he’s got a point.” Charlie sighed. “What the hell happened to me?”
“You’ve had some bad luck,” Jim said. “I bet a change of scenery would help.”
“I haven’t been on a date in three years and I’m stuck in a job a moron could do. Plus, I’m not getting any younger.”
Mike grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “You’re only in your thirties bro.”
“Yeah, and I’ve already got the bald horseshoe thing going on.”
Blake had heard enough. “Fuck this pity party. You need to get your confidence back. Stop sitting around waiting for good things to happen to you and stop being such a pussy.” He cracked his knuckles. “Luckily, I’m just the guy to help. I’ll be right back.”
Blake returned with company. “Svetlana, this is my friend, Professor Campbell. He teaches English at DePaul University.” Truth was always the first casualty when it came to getting laid.
“Umm, hello.” Charlie stared at his feet.
“Milo mi (nice to meet you),” the gorgeous brunette waitress answered back in Polish while Blake stood behind her, making a gesture in sign language for large breasts. “I’m wanting to be writer. This man said you could teach?” She batted her eyes and looked vulnerable and endearing at the same time. Charlie almost felt guilty.
“Ahh, yeah. Sure I’d be willing to um, to see what kind of writing style you have and give you some pointers.” Charlie did his best impression of a haughty professor.
“Dobry (good). I get off in hour. I will join you?”
“That’d be great, Svetlana. I’ll be right here.”
She walked away while the gang got an eyeful. “Her English is worse than Vidu’s,” Jim said. “But her ass is a lot nicer.”
“You can thank me after I get a lap dance and possibly more if I’m lucky.” Blake froze in place as he got up from the table. “Shitballs.”
“If it isn’t my sister’s punk-ass kid. Didn’t think I’d miss my nephew’s bachelor party, did ya?” A scraggly, mullet-haired man with a potbelly and a roguish grin approached the table.
It was Blake’s uncle, Russ. The man was one part Al Bundy, one part Archie Bunker and three parts douchebag. Forty-five years old, Russ’s binge drinking, three divorces and two bricks on his paycheck left him looking much older. “Who’s catering this party, anyways?” He sat down uninvited, reeking of Old Spice and chewing tobacco.
“Margaritas are on special,” Blake said flatly.
“That kind of drink will put some hair on your pussy. No, I’ll take a Jack and Coke, and keep ‘em coming.”
Blake knew his uncle would be a tick on his ass for the rest of the night. What’s worse, lending the parasite money was the only sure way to get rid of him.
Interrupting the family reunion, a middle-aged stripper with a long c-section scar approached the group. “Need company?” Her sunken lips betrayed the toothless smile of a meth-head.
“I could go for a gummy.” Left-Nut pointed downwards.
“Come on, I need to make money. I lost my job last week and this is my first day here.” This was obvious bullshit as the lady had the downtrodden look of a club veteran.
“Were you a dentist?”
She glared at Left-Nut. “Seriously, I have three kids to feed. Get a lap dance or at least buy me a drink.”
Russ waved her away. “Bitch, I came here to forget my own problems, not learn about yours.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, cheap-ass.”
Trent finally showed up as the stripper stormed off. The overweight cop waved his badge to avoid paying the cover charge and walked over. “You guys look fucked up.” He surveyed their pitiful state and nodded at Russ. “Who invited Billy Ray Cyrus?”
“It’s my Uncle Russ,” Blake said sheepishly. “He’s gonna be partying with us. I guess.”
“That jagoff’s your uncle?” Trent said then shrugged. “Anyways, who wants to buy some blow?”
Smokey, Blake and a few others followed Trent into the bathroom to kick things up a notch. While they blasted off, Charlie bounced some lies off Mike and settled on being a bestselling author who coached rugby on the side. Pretty standard bullshit.
Twenty minutes of booze and boobs later, a trampy woman in NASCAR gear approached the table. “This might sound weird, but my cousin wants to hook up tonight. It’s her twenty-first, and she hasn’t ever been with a man.”
Left-Nut leaned forward, arching an eyebrow. “Now you’re talkin’ my language. Where is she?”
“That’s her right there.” The girl was rocking a Disney tank top, she had the faint hint of a mustache, a full uni-brow and a very lazy eye.
“Shit, that girl’s face could make a train take a dirt road,” Uncle Russ said, clearly no diplomat.
Left-Nut was unfazed. “I’m intrigued. Sell me on it.”
“What if I throw in ten bucks?” the woman said through rotten teeth.
“Done. Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.” Left-Nut took off with the poor girl, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“He’s gotta be breaking some laws,” Mike said.
Smokey nodded. “True, but the only cop in the building’s selling coke in the bathroom.”
“Not even the crack of dawn’s safe around that boy,” Russ said, clearly impressed.
Charlie ignored his idiot friend and focused on his own scandalous plans. He had to hand it to Blake: the guy was arrogant, but he sure made things happen.
“Are you going to bang this chick or what?” Smokey asked and Charlie shrugged.
“That girl screws random guys,” Russ said and paused to light a generic cigarette. “I can tell.”
Charlie hesitated to take Russ’s advice since the man’s reputation definitely preceded him. “How would you know?”
Russ leaned back as if lecturing schoolchildren. “You think you’re first class pussy-hounds, but you guys don’t know shit. She’s burning a cigarette right now. She knows it’ll kill her someday, but she does it anyways. Just like she knows fucking random dudes is bad for her. It’s simple. If she smokes, she pokes.” Impressed with himself, Russ ordered his nephew to buy him a shot of tequila.
“I hope for my sake you’re right.” Charlie said as he prepared for the encounter, but he’d temporarily forgotten about the presence of Trent – an infamous cock-blocker.
Of course, Trent had returned from the bathroom and was now making a move of his own on Svetlana. “Hey, sweetheart, what do you think about coming over for a little fun tonight? We’re gonna have like a foot of snow.” She looked confused, so Trent elaborated. “Coke, I mean a lot of coke.” He always tried the direct approach.
Charlie’s hackles rose as he realized Trent was trying to snake him, but Svetlana simply ignored the cop’s advances. “Sorry, the professor and I are having nice conversation at my place.” She took Charlie by the arm. “Ready?”
On their way out, Charlie gave Trent a wink and a knowing smile. He didn’t get too many victories over his roommate and this one looked to be sweet indeed.
“Why the fuck did she call him the professor anyways?” Trent asked.
“It’s his back story. But don’t worry, that girl’s out of your price range anyways,” Blake said.
&n
bsp; “No way, you mean she’s a professional?”
Blake nodded. “I wanted to help Charlie out of his rut. He’s been a real sad-sack lately.”
“Does he know she’s a hooker?”
“Not a clue.”
“That’s hilarious.” Trent looked at his watch. “Speaking of skanks, we need to head home for the private show.”
The remaining group assembled outside and began to catch various cabs while Russ stared at Mike for a few awkward seconds. “Hold on, I think I recognize you. Ain’t you the one they call Faggot Bill or something?”
“It’s Gay Mike, actually, but you can call me Mike.”
“Okay, Gay Mike, let’s share a ride. I’d like to get in on that private show the pig was talking about.” Russ smiled and put his arm around Mike as if they were old friends. “You’re gonna have to spot me though, I’m all outta cash.”
Chapter 7
Two Ships Passing in the Night
Stretching out like a cat in a comfortable bed, Charlie yawned as he savored the memories of the night before. He then wrapped his arms around his sleeping partner and got ready for round two. But something was amiss. He didn’t remember Svetlana’s arms being so muscular, her skin so rough or her breath smelling like stale vodka and Cheetos.
“Dzien dobry.” An unexpectedly manly voice greeted Charlie. “Good morning.”
His eyes shot open and he was instantly face to face with a stoutly built Polish goon. “It seems you owe me money?” the man asked, although it was more of a statement.
Charlie looked around and saw the girl making coffee in the kitchen. “What the hell’s going on here, Svetlana?”
“That’s not my name, idiot.” Charlie wasn’t the only one lying the night before.
To add insult to injury, she didn’t look nearly as good without the effects of alcohol, bad lighting and an erection.
None of that mattered a second later when a meaty fist hammered Charlie’s eye socket and sent him rolling out of bed and onto the hardwood floor, naked and dazed. He quickly grabbed his pants and hopped into them while backing away from the bed.
The other man rose and nonchalantly pulled out a switchblade as if he were about to carve an apple. “Your friend paid two hours,” he said in broken English. “You stayed eight. So you owe me six hundred. Gdzie są moje pieniądze?” he yelled. “Where’s my money?” The pimp soon advanced several feet and cut off the escape route through the front door.
Charlie stalled. “I can get the six hundred, no problem.” Of course, there was a huge problem because the only things in his wallet were a maxed out credit card and the condom he should have used.
“You will take us to ATM?”
“Yeah, sure.”
The thug’s phone rang and he reached into his pocket, giving Charlie the opening he needed. Without hesitation, he dove out the window, bounced off the fire escape and tumbled down two flights of metal stairs. Polish curses and the sound of a loud bitch-slap to a hooker’s mouth were all that followed, and Charlie ran off. He almost felt bad for the girl. Almost.
After cutting through alleyways and jumping a turnstile like a criminal, he boarded the Red Line train, shirtless, shoeless and bleeding, but alive. Actually, he hadn’t felt this alive in years.
The train took off as Charlie grabbed a seat and caught his breath. He couldn’t decide what pissed him off most — that Blake set him up, that he had sex with a hooker, or that some scumbag tried to rob him.
Charlie pulled his bare feet off the scum-covered floor and then shuddered, remembering what another body part had touched hours before. “Too bad I don’t have health insurance,” he said while checking his phone, which of course was dead.
A nearby door opened and two hoodie-wearing youths swaggered in like royalty surveying their kingdom. They were the type that asked a person for change then bashed their head in with a brick. Real winners.
Charlie instinctively tensed up before he realized he had nothing left to lose. Besides, he looked like a homeless crack head, and nobody bothered messing with them.
An Asian businessman in a tailored suit, however, was another story. He had been motionless for a few minutes except for coughing, and the sweaty man looked to be coming down from a heroin binge. Easy pickings.
One of the delinquents poked the man, causing him to rock forward and projectile vomit onto the thug’s spotless white sneakers. “Motherfucker!” His friend giggled, setting the youth off even more. “You’re gonna pay for that, bitch.”
Charlie bolted when the train reached the next stop, having already had his day’s fill of random violence. Sure enough, a guttural scream erupted as the doors shut, and he turned to watch the brawl. But it was the teenager banging on the door as the train pulled away, his face pressed against the window. Even stranger, the boy’s eyes had the desperation of a wild animal caught in a trap.
“Dude must have known karate,” Charlie said while starting his long walk home, tired and barefoot. That change of scenery Jim had mentioned sounded better and better.
Chapter 8
Hookers and Hangovers
A Steely Dan ringtone competed with the chorus of snores in the apartment for several minutes before Trent rose to answer. The commotion had roused the semi-conscious Russ, who was sleeping in the bathtub of all places. “Shut that shit off,” he said with a whine and curled back up with the towels he’d used for blankets.
Trent wanted to ignore the call, but several collection agencies and a gambling problem meant the eight-year veteran needed overtime.
He cleared the phlegm from his throat. “Talk to me.” There was yelling on the other end. “You know I’m off today?” Trent replied, and there was more yelling. “Fine. Pick me up in ten.” He hung up, wondering why they had to send someone to get him.
Vidu glanced at his knockoff watch and sat up. He’d promised to see a friend run a five-k through Bucktown and was about to miss it. The woman actually gave him the time of day, and Vidu planned to ask her out as a last ditch effort to find a wife.
The Sri Lankan found the remains of the bachelor party in the living room, and it wasn’t pretty. Trent’s strippers had failed to show up, and the night ended with a whimper instead of a bang. His friends were now sprawled in all directions, and the unmistakably sour smell of vomit wafted through the air. The place was a real pigsty of spilled beer, Mexican takeout, buzzing flies and cigarette butts. It was just like college.
“Anyone want to come see the race? It’s down the street.”
Left-Nut sat up in a La-Z Boy. “You know I don’t miss girls in spandex.”
Vidu sighed. “Does anyone else want to come?”
“Yeah, I’ll go,” Jim said. “This place is nasty, and Cindy won’t be here until noon. We can grab breakfast too.”
Trent swaggered in carrying a Gatorade in one hand and his nightstick in the other. “You boners have fun. I’m going to work.”
“I thought you were off?” Vidu said.
“There’s a riot or something on the Southside. Sounds like a level three chimp out to me. But I’m getting time and a half today so screw it. Plus I might get to bust some skulls.”
“Be careful out there,” Jim said.
“Don’t worry about me.” Nobody was. “Worry about any Mondays that get in my way.” Trent swung his nightstick for emphasis.
Vidu was confused by the term. “What’s a Monday?”
Trent laughed. “A black person, you know?”
“Why do you call them Mondays?” Vidu’s eyes narrowed.
“Because everybody hates Mondays, duh.”
“Asshole,” Jim said. “But we need to get going.”
“Fucking racist,” Vidu mumbled under his breath as he walked past the cop.
Trent rubbed Vidu’s hair. “Ah, lighten up cupcake. You camel jockeys are too serious.”
“I’m from southeast Asia, idiot. You know it’s covered with rainforests right?”
“You’re all sand-humpers in my book
.” Trent was an equal opportunity offender.
Like most conversations with the cop, this one ended on a bad note as the trio walked down the rickety porch and headed out, eager for some fresh air.
* * *
Charlie’s feet ached something awful as he neared home. The former track standout paused to rub them and noticed his growing beer belly. “Better get those running shoes this week,” he said as the front door burst open and several of his friends filed out. He’d been making that promise for two years.
“Talking to yourself is a sign of madness,” Jim said and then noticed Charlie’s growing shiner. “Whoa man, what happened to you?”
“Some homeless pricks rolled me,” Charlie said while doing his best to avoid eye contact. “They tried to take my wallet but I got away.”
“Was this before or after they took your shirt and shoes?” Left-Nut reached for the tender flesh underneath Charlie’s right eye only to have his hand slapped away.
Vidu didn’t have time for small talk. “Come to the race and tell us all about it.”
“I’ll pass. I’ve got a monster headache, and my hangover hasn’t even started yet.”
“It smells like assholes and tacos in there. Come on,” Vidu said, his patience waning.
“And there’s bound to be plenty of ladies at the race,” Left-Nut added.
But Charlie couldn’t even think about women considering what he’d gone through. Still, he didn’t want to start cleaning and knew Trent wouldn’t lift a finger, so he grabbed sandals from the porch and borrowed Jim’s over shirt. Moments later, they started the four-block hike down Damen Avenue, past tiny cafés and overpriced boutiques. It was a beautiful morning.
Despite his best efforts, nobody bought Charlie’s story. “Okay… did you get lucky with the Euro-trash or what?” Jim said.
Charlie searched for plausible deniability on the hooker aspect of the story. “We went back to her place and talked. She’s a sweet girl, wants to be a writer someday.”
“I know the type,” Jim said. “They work at strip clubs by night and do award winning screenplays by day. You know, I think Vidu got a lap dance from an up and coming economist.”
Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Page 4