4

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The middle of next week, I come home to find Jerry studying in the living room. He’s alone, for once. Normally I have to see him and Aster cuddling or looking way too happy together as they eat dinner or lock themselves away in his room. I never hear them banging through the walls, but I’m not desperate enough to think they’re sitting in there reading scripture, either.

I wish.

“Hey,” I say, hanging up my coat.

“Hey,” Jerry replies. He closes his textbook. “How was work?”

“Just fine. Ready for the weekend.”

“I hear you.”

“Yeah?” I grab some leftover takeout from the fridge. “When was the last time you went out?”

He doesn’t even lie. “I don’t remember,” he admits. “It’s been a while.”

“Come out on Friday,” I say, like it’s just occurred to me. “A friend of mine is getting married, and we’re having a bachelor party.”

“Getting married?” he exclaims. “How old is this friend?”

“Twenty-three. He’s a fucking idiot. We’re going to give him one last send-off before the ball and chain get tied on.”

“That’s young.”

I eat another mouthful of cold chow mein. “Real young. You and Aster headed that way?”

“For marriage?”

“Yeah.”

I wait for him to say no, this is college, they’re having fun, it’s not permanent. Instead he says, “Maybe once I finish med school and I’m working. I don’t want to tie her down when I have nothing to offer.”

A little shiver of guilt snakes through me, but I ignore it. “You’ll have lots to offer—in ten years. For now, live a little. Come have a beer on a Friday night.”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “You’re right. I’ll come. Thanks.”

I throw the empty takeout container in the trashcan across the room, sinking the three-pointer. “Thank you.”

* * *

Jerry tries to wear a tie to the bachelor party. He comes out of his room at ten on Friday night, no doubt having sat in there for the past two hours, wondering when we were supposed to leave. I told him around ten, but he didn’t think it was possible to start something so late. I swear Jerry’s an eighty-year-old man in a twenty-one-year-old body.

“Take that off,” I tell him when I spot the polka dot tie. Polka dots. Jerry might be nice and on his way to becoming a doctor, but I’m not sure those facts can make up for this tie. I’m doing Aster a huge favor by intervening here.

At least, that’s who I tell myself the favor’s for.

“What?” Jerry asks, automatically touching the tie. “This tie?”

“Yeah. It’s a bachelor party, not a horse race.”

“I haven’t been to a horse race in forever,” Jerry says. “Have you—”

“No. Tie off.”

He reluctantly undoes the tie, folds it carefully, and rests it on an end table. I’m sitting on the couch, wearing jeans and black button-up shirt, my combat boots propped on the ottoman as I eat a bowl of popcorn. I told him this wasn’t a drink-expensive-scotch-and-smoke-cigars type of deal, but I don’t think he believed me until now.

“And untuck your shirt,” I say.

“But that’s so slopp—” He breaks off when he sees my face. He’s got his sea green shirt tucked completely inside his khakis, and it takes him twelve full seconds to pull it out. There. At least he looks like a semi-youthful person. Or at least a bank employee who’s finished work for the evening.

“All right,” I say, getting to my feet. “Let’s go.”

I can tell Jerry’s nervous as we make the twenty-minute trek through the cold night to a dive bar called Bender just off the edge of campus. Bender is the anchor of a plaza of seedy businesses, all of which are open twenty-four hours. Pawn shop, sex shop, money lending. Everything a guy could ask for.

I grab the door and noise pours out, the battle of old rock music warring with drunken revelers and a recap of a rowdy football game. Jerry pauses for a second before entering, probably uttering a quick thank-you-God he’s not wearing the tie.

The bar is small and tightly packed, and so dark I probably wouldn’t have located my friends if I couldn’t hear them. They’ve commandeered three tables and a booth in the back corner, near a hallway blocked by a flimsy beaded curtain. They haven’t been here for long, but the table is already littered with empty shot glasses and baskets of greasy food.

“Shaw!” someone bellows, and more shouts follow.

I lead Jerry to the table and pull out two chairs near the curtain. “Hey,” I say. “This is my roommate.” I make the introductions and Jerry does a commendable job of not appearing too alarmed at the company he’s being asked to keep.

I enrolled at Holsom as part of their Promise & Potential Program, and that’s how I met most of these guys. Boasting tattoos, piercings, muscles, and perma-scowls, we work at the library, the bakery, and the campus daycare. My friend Wes did two years in prison for his part in a small scale drug operation; now he can change a dirty diaper in ten seconds flat.

Not that anybody will tell Jerry this.

I see a couple side-eye glances at the khakis, but no one comments. They don’t know about Aster or my ulterior motive for this evening, they think I’m just bringing Jerry out for a good time. And I am.

A fresh round of shots arrives and I expect Jerry to ask for a glass of white wine, but he grabs his glass and joins in the toast for Brix, the unlucky guy getting married in a month, and downs the whisky like a pro.

I keep pace for the next two rounds, then switch to water. I’ve got a small buzz, but Jerry’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy and he’s not half as tense as when he arrived. He even laughs at T.J.’s story about threatening to break the fingers of a student who claimed his cinnamon bun was over-baked and tried to get a refund.

“That bun was not over-baked!” T.J. shouts, pounding the table. “It was moist!”

We shout our agreed outrage and I can practically see Jerry making a mental note never to visit the bakery.

“Hey, boys,” coos a familiar voice, soft but seductive enough to wind through the testosterone-fuelled noise.

“Hey, Sin,” comes the chorus.

“Sin?” Jerry echoes as she steps through the curtain and puts her flawless, mostly-bare body on display.

“Sindy,” she says. “Sin for short.” She bends to whisper in his ear. “Or long.”

“Huh?”

Brix gives me a strange look. I’ve told them most of the truth about Jerry: he’s my roommate, pre-med, nice guy, a bit uptight. Definitely not a guy who’s paid for sex, or seen someone else pay for sex. I’ve never paid for it myself, but if you’ve been to Bender, you’ve seen guys—and gals—slip through that beaded curtain after Sindy and slide back out with a satisfied smile on their face. Hence tonight’s prime seating arrangements.

Sindy sinks into a free chair and crosses her legs, monitoring Jerry’s face the whole time, sizing him up. He’s a little drunk, a little confused, and a little turned on.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” she says. She leans in, arms pressing into her torso to emphasize her fantastic rack. She wears a sparkly gold bra that leaves little to the imagination, and I can almost see the shiny fabric reflected in Jerry’s eyes.

“Um, it’s my first time,” he manages to reply. “I’m normally...studying.” He’s having a hard time keeping his gaze off her chest, though he’s doing a commendable job of trying.

“Hey,” Brix says, rapping on the table to get my attention. “You wanna watch your friend get his rocks off or play pool?”

“That’s a tough one,” I say, standing. “But I guess I can kick your ass before your new wife takes over.”

Half of us move to the far side of the bar with the pool tables and dartboards. I see Wes talking to some sketchy guys in the corner, but tell myself to stay out of it. We all got our spot in this program for a reason; it’s probably nothing.

Brix reserved a table and now he racks the balls and takes the first shot. “Should we make this interesting?” he asks, reaching for his wallet.

“No,” I say automatically. I’ve done a lot of bad shit, but I never gamble. Never.

“Right,” he drawls, smirking as he sinks his first ball. “Because you’re afraid of losing.”

“Ha.” I scoff as he misses his next shot, then pick up my cue. “I’m doing you a favor. You’ll see.”

I know these guys well enough to call them my friends, but not well enough to talk to them about the situation with Jerry and Aster, though I have a hard time concentrating on the game when across the room I see that Sin has moved into my chair to be closer to Jerry. She’s got her hand on his bicep and her head tossed back as she laughs at something he said.

T.J. comes over with another round of shots and I hesitate before taking one. Alcohol only gets me into trouble. Women get me in trouble. I get me in trouble.

Fuck it. It’s Friday. I’ll sleep through the weekend and be back on the straight and narrow come Monday.  

Three games of pool and another five—or was it eight?—shots later, I can’t even remember what straight and narrow means. We stumble back to the table, mocking Wes’s failed attempts to pick up women and his insistence that he “didn’t want to, anyway,” and find Jerry and Sindy squeezed into a booth together.

A half-eaten basket of carrot sticks sits in front of them, as well as an empty bottle of white wine and two glasses.

Oh, Jerry.

I sigh inwardly, thinking tonight’s game plan might be a little harder to execute than expected, then perk up when I notice that Sindy’s only got one hand visible. The other is hidden beneath the table, doing something that’s making Jerry have a hard time finishing his sentence.

“How long have they been in there?” I ask T.J. T.J. went from high school straight into prison, and came to Holsom after he got out early for good behavior. Now he’s an art history major who makes a mean focaccia. 

“Too long,” he replies. “He still doesn’t know that what Sindy’s offering ain’t free. At least, it never has been.” 

Sindy’s a business woman at heart, skilled in one of womankind’s oldest trades, and even as I’m thinking how best to insinuate myself into their party for two and convince them to take things into the back, Sindy links her fingers with Jerry’s and tugs him out of the booth toward the beads.

She parts the shiny curtain and giggles sexily as she pulls on his hand, and at the last second he turns to look at me, the same look I must have had when I stole my first car. The look of someone who knows he’s going to do something bad, maybe even wants to do something bad, even as he understands there will be consequences.

Then he lets Sindy lure him out of sight.

“Damn,” Wes mutters. “That guy? Really?”

“C’mon,” T.J. says. “Look at those khakis! When else is he going to get laid if he doesn’t pay for it?”

He’s not paying for it, I think.

I am.