THE BASEMENT IS EMPTY OF everyone but the four of us, linked up against the wall and impatiently waiting for something to happen, just as we’ve been doing for the past hour. Thursdays have become my new most detested day. You’re off the hook, Monday. For now.
“This fucking blows,” Mac whines.
I nod. “It’s more like basic training than I ever thought it would be.”
“What makes you say that?” Carter asks.
I think it over for a moment, trying my best to ignore the pain radiating throughout my knees and ankles. My joints are wobbly and worn from years of ruck marching with ninety pounds on my back and the unforgiving nature of the ground after one too many Airborne experiences. As a result, I feel it every second I’m left standing here on concrete that provides absolutely no relief.
I look to Carter, replying, “Just the hurry up and wait bullshit. Not tellin’ us when shit goes down, or what to expect. Just one big mindfuck.”
“You’re telling me,” Mac groans.
“They’re bound to come down soon,” Carter says, and as the words exit his mouth, the basement door swings open.
Trevor comes first, followed by Tim, Brady, and Zane in their robes with paddles in their hands, and Damian and Sarge behind them. Sarge has a paddle in his hand as well.
They line up before us and Trevor takes a step forward.
“Pledges, welcome to Big Brother night. Tonight, you will further deepen your bond within the fraternity as you accept a bid into a DIK family. Each family represents a legacy that has existed since the start of DIK-Rho in 1922. These families share a special bond throughout a DIK brother’s lifetime. The family means commitment. Commitment to yourselves, your family, and the fraternity as a whole.”
Trevor motions toward Sarge. “Sarge, can you take a step forward with your paddle, please?”
Sarge does as he’s asled, a grin on his face as I read the paddle:
DIK
Spring 2011
Big Bro
Sarge
Little Bro
Bishop
Warrior Family
I pass him an approving nod as Trevor continues, “Brother Sarge, are you prepared to recite the Big Brother Oath?”
“Roger that,” Sarge says, nodding toward Trevor. His eyes trail back to me and he continues, “I, Blake ‘Sarge’ Maddox, understand that my duties as a Big Brother are to serve as a mentor and friend to my Little Brother through the pledging process, and for the rest of my life as a Delta Iota Kappa fraternity member. I will share with him the knowledge and standards of our fraternity. I will guide and assist him through his personal development and during his lifelong pursuit of excellence in keeping with the standards of Delta Iota Kappa. I will instill in him personal responsibility through the integrity of my actions as a true Big Brother and a DIK Gentleman of Excellence.”
Trevor looks to me as I fight back the laugh that’s aching to bust free.
“McKenzie Bishop, do you accept Sarge as your Big Brother, and promise to be open-minded, loyal, and giving in your fraternal family interactions, to always give your best effort in not only being a brother to your fraternity, but by committing to the Warrior Family within DIK-Rho?”
“What if I say ‘no’ here?” I ask. Damian doesn’t like it very much, but Sarge chuckles.
Sarge shakes his head. “You don’t got a choice, buddy.”
“So do I say ‘I do’ or somethin’ like I’m marryin’ your ass?”
Sarge laughs again.
“Just respond with ‘yes,’” Trevor interjects.
“Yes, Sarge,” I respond, looking at him with googly eyes and holding back the laughter in my chest. “I do.”
“Welcome to the Warrior Family,” Sarge says, giving me a bro hug.
“What does that even mean?”
“I’ll tell you about it after,” Sarge responds with a mischievous smirk.
“After what?” I ask, and he slaps the paddle into his free hand a few times.
“No fuckin’ way,” I say. “That’s some homoerotic shit, man.”
“It’s tradition,” Sarge corrects me, his eyebrows dancing. “Bend over and pull down your panties. I get a hit and you get a hit.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, so I get to hit you, too?”
“That’s the only way it works in a fraternity. A hit for a hit.”
I think on this for a moment, shrug, and then bend over, exposing my bare ass. “Well, alright. Let’s do this shit.”
“He’s got about fifty pounds on you,” Damian says with a chuckle. “This ought to be rich.”
I shoot Damian a sideways glance as I say, “Sarge, do your worst, man, so I can pull my fuckin’ pants up.”
“Now that’s some shit you don’t hear one vet say to another every day,” Jeremy says, laughing.
I spot Sarge backing up a few paces through my peripheral, and I turn forward in response, letting out a heavy breath. I focus on a distant point through my mind’s eye, doing my best to shed the anticipation. There’s a stillness in the room for a few moments until I hear Sarge’s heavy boots meeting the concrete floor in quick steps.
I take a deep breath.
Whack! The slapping sound echoes throughout the basement as the wood meets my bare ass. On the inside, I’m dying, the pain radiating from my ass cheeks and down my thighs in burning trails, but I don’t let it show. I keep my face even keel. I pull up my pants and stand up straight.
Turning back around, I nod slowly and pass Sarge a grin. “Meh. Not too bad, old man.” I point to his chiseled biceps. “Though I guess those are just for show, huh?”
Sarge shakes his head as everyone else looks on, baffled.
“Jesus Christ, dude,” Trevor says, his eyes wide.
“I should’ve expected as much,” Sarge quips as he hands over the paddle reluctantly. He turns, unbuckling his jeans. Then he bends over and slips his ass out.
I don’t give him a running start as he did for me, but I don’t have to; I played baseball for years when I was younger. With that in mind, I rear the paddle back and slowly return it to within a centimeter of his ass to get the aim down. After doing this a few times, I bring the paddle down as hard as I can, and it cracks against his bottom.
He crumples to the floor, catching himself on his knuckles as he grunts in pain. Then he stands up straight, steadying himself, as he turns back around with a grin, rubbing a stiff hand against his ass with a grimace.
“Probably the worst one I’ve had,” he says with a shake of his head as he buttons his jeans back up.
“Appreciate it,” I reply, smiling wickedly.
“Alright, Bishop. Link back up with your pledge brothers. We’ve got three more to get through before the real fun starts.”
I link back up and watch as Mac and Tim exchange hits—Mac nearly crying from his—then Zane and Carter, and finally, Brady and Jeremy.
As the four of us are linked back up—the three others shifting uncomfortably where they stand, grimaces on their faces—Trevor and Damian head to the bar for a moment, digging in the refrigerator and coming back with four bottles of liquor. Trevor hands Patron off to Brady and Jim Beam to Tim, as Damian gives Zane a bottle of Jack Daniels and Sarge what looks like moonshine in a large mason jar. I take a thick swallow, my saliva becoming thick, as I eye the jar in his hands.
“Pledges … Big Brothers …” Trevor announces. “Now comes the easy part of the night. Family bonding. Each Big Brother has chosen a bottle of liquor that he will share with his Little Brother, and you will both have it finished within the next three hours. You’ll spend that time getting to know each other better. Pledges, unlink, and let’s have some fun.”
After Sarge and I are about halfway through the jar, I can feel my head ablaze, my body numb, and my heart pounding. We sit in rockers on the front porch which overlooks frat row. Drunk frat boys and sorority girls pass by in clusters every now and then on the sidewalk below.
“I mean, just think about it,” Sarge says, gripping the jar in one hand and a cigar in the other.
“I have been,” I say, chuckling. “The past three hours you’ve been talking about it. I still don’t see how it’s possible.”
He leans in. “How could it not be? We know the government has abilities and technologies outside of our knowledge. We can agree on that part of it, right?”
I nod.
“So who’s to say they don’t have the ability to see into the future? To know what’s coming. Through intelligence, or ome machine or something… or some motherfucker with ESP.”
I look at him skeptically. “Now you’re stretching.”
“The government has an agenda. That’s all I’m saying. I think they know about crimes before they happen sometimes, through intelligence probably, and they let that shit happen anyway to drive that agenda.”
I shrug. “It’s sound in theory, I guess. I just feel like somebody would’ve talked about it by now. It would’ve gotten out.”
“See, I’m the type who believes there is nothing outside of our government’s moral boundary, including murder. And that kind of shit would be so ‘need to know’ the amount of people who’d be able to talk would be minimal.”
“We definitely need to change the subject.” I laugh. I point to the sky. “They’re probably listening.”
He grins, obviously picking up my facetious tone. “And what would you like to talk about, young one?”
Passing the jar off to Sarge and lighting up a cigarette, I ask, “Did you get everything you expected out of this fraternity experience?”
He thinks on this for a moment. “It wasn’t what I anticipated getting into it, but I’ve gotten everything out of it that I could.”
“Are you sick of it at this point? I know you don’t hang around the house much. And at ceremonies, you look about as impressed as I am by all this stupid shit.”
“It gave me a good distraction for a while until the newness of it all wore off. When it’s all said and done, my expectations were too high. I missed the Army. I was having a hell of a time transitioning, and so I was trying to find a substitute brotherhood. Problem is, a fraternity isn’t the Army, and it never could be.” He lets out a deep sigh, biting down onto his cigar as his eyes trace the night sky.
“Do I really show my cards that bad?” he eventually asks, a smirk building on his face.
Shaking my head, I respond, “Nah. I mean, you hold an officer position. You show up when they need you to. Seems like a lot of brothers around here really look up to you, including myself. Nothin’ more you can really ask of someone. It just, you don’t seem like you’re as frat-tastic as the rest of these guys.”
He laughs, nodding his head as he removes his cigar from his lips and replaces it with the mason jar. He takes a swig, swallows hard, and then he says, “Yeah, I’m certainly not. Some of this shit has gotten quite old. I’ve gotten quite old.”
“When did it all start gettin’ old for you?”
“When I realized all these guys like to do is get fucked up, do drugs, fuck chicks, and sleep all day.” He shrugs. “That, and like I said, I realized I was old as dirt playing a young man’s game. It felt time to move on about a year after I pledged and true colors started to show. That’s when people started finding out about me too. Took away some of my aura, I think. Some of that badass Army mystique I carried around for a year.”
“What did people start findin’ out?” I ask.
He chuckles, shrugging, as he replies frankly, “That I’m gay.”
I rear my head back as he returns the cigar to his lips and hands the ’shine back over to me.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, blindly grabbing the jar and taking a swig. My doubtful eyes never leave his, however, a tight scrunch in my brow.
“No bullshit,” he says, as I study his expression.
Genuine.
“There’s no fuckin’ way you’re gay. Not a chance,” I argue, shaking my head.
“Believe it, Bishop. It’s the truth. I’ve been out for a handful of years now.”
“C’mon, man. I can’t tell if you’re fuckin’ with me here or not.”
“I’m not.” Sarge grins, dabbing the cigar out and reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his phone as he takes the jar from me.
Scrolling through his phone, he eventually says, “Aha,” and faces the phone toward me. He takes a drink of the ’shine with his other hand, a wide smile against the brim of the glass.
On the screen is a photo of Sarge, a few years younger, wearing an Army t-shirt, and walking in what can only be a Gay Pride parade, a small rainbow flag in his hand. He locks the screen and stuffs the phone back into his pocket, chuckling as my jaw belongs to the floor now.
“Does everyone here know?” I eventually ask, disbelief still written on my features.
“The people that need to, yeah. And they know I have a boyfriend in Pittsburgh—Jonah—who I love. That’s the main reason I’m not around so much anymore. They respect and understand that for the most part. There are some good guys in DIK, seriously; there’s just a lot of shit in the ranks, too. Just like anywhere else, I guess.”
“How’d you deal with bein’ gay in the Army?”
“I didn’t,” he says, chuckling, but there’s some pain masked behind it. “I didn’t talk about it, didn’t feel it, didn’t acknowledge it. Not until I got out. I was a shell of a man for most of my life. When I joined the Army, it was my everything, my identity. It’s all I knew and cared about. It took meeting Jonah about five years ago to find myself. My love for him allowed me to see myself for who I really was, and not just the rough exterior I surrounded myself with before him.”
“Wow, that’s really awesome, man.”
“He’s awesome,” Sarge says, smiling. “I’m just lucky.”
“Were you ever straight?” I ask, and he laughs. I immediately feel stupid for asking such a senseless question.
“I pretended to be for a while. I was married once. For a spell. But straight? Me?” He laughs. “Nah.”
“No shit. You were married?”
“That’s right. Married my high school sweetheart. I was trying to do what was expected of me, I guess. I was married to her for two years before it all fell apart. Like I said, I had this barrier up no one could breach. I didn’t feel. I just existed. And war became my mistress.”
“And you knew while you were married that you were gay?”
“Bishop, I knew since I was a kid. I was just following the pattern. Until the pattern just didn’t make sense to me anymore.”
“Do your Army friends know now?”
“Most of them. Some, I just can’t tell. Probably should, but likely never will.”
“I can’t even imagine havin’ to tell everyone. To even need to tell everyone. It shouldn’t matter.” I hesitate for a moment, pulling out another cigarette. “What about your parents?”
“My parents are both gone now, but my mom was the first person I ever told. She supported me, no matter what. Helped me a lot through my divorce. It was a really difficult time. My dad never knew and probably never would’ve wanted to know. He was a farmer with that old-school mentality. But he loved me. He was just the ‘what you don’t know, doesn’t hurt’ kind of person.”
I lift the nearly empty jar of moonshine and smirk at him. “Now, I don’t have to worry about you makin’ moves on me, seein’ as I’m drunk, do I?” I take a chug as he laughs.
“You wish. I like my guys skinny and a little on the feminine side.”
“So, what’s so different between that and a woman?”
He grins, swiping the jar from me. “I don’t need to give you an anatomy lesson, do I?”
“No, no. I mean, like if they’re feminine and kind of girly-lookin’, ain’t that about the same as datin’ a woman?”
“Well, let me ask you this. Would you fuck a feminine-looking gay guy?”
I shake my head firmly. “Nope. Nothin’ against it. I just like the pussy.”
“Okay, so it’s not the same. And I like dick.”
“Got it.”
“I like dude’s buttholes. Man pussy.”
I laugh loudly. “I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down. Good to go.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Only when I think about it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I feel the same way about pussy.”
“I don’t know how. Pussy is delicious, man.”
“Some pussy is delicious,” he corrects me. “Remember, I played straight for a few years and she wasn’t always flowers and spring meadows down there.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I agree, grimacing. “But you fuck what people shit out of.”
He passes me a doubtful look. “You’re telling me you’ve never fucked an asshole?”
“Well, yeah. Of course, but …”
He chuckles. “Of course, nothing. It’s the same thing. Dude ass. Woman ass. It’s all the same. There aren’t different brands. It’s called good personal hygiene, Bishop.”
“I’ve had some bad experiences.”
“Haven’t we all. You have to enema. It’s a must,” he says, shrugging.
“I think we’ve talked enough about assholes tonight, actually.”
“You did say you wanted to change the subject.” He grins wide.
I laugh and then look over toward the parking lot, hearing faint noises. “I wonder how the other guys are farin’.”
Louder now, a cackle comes from out of the darkness, and then obnoxious howling. Mac abruptly scurries across the parking lot on all fours. Tim follows behind him, laughing, with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other, recording.
“Mac! What the fuck are you doin’?” I yell, standing. Sarge stands too, and we lean over the railing. Mac is down by the street now with a leg hiked up as if he’s pissing on a hydrant.
Sarge laughs. “This motherfucker,” he says, shaking his head.
“Dude is a fuckin’ lightweight. Then again, he can’t weigh more than like ninety pounds.”
“He looks like a bulimic Carrot Top,” Sarge quips, and I burst out in laughter.
“Like Ellen’s red-headed cousin … who happens to be bulimic. And addicted to cocaine,” I add as Mac crawls back toward the porch.
Tim pockets his cellphone and heads our way.
“Wolfpack Family!” Mac yells, followed by an annoyingly high-pitched howl.
“That red-headed fuck is drunk,” Tim bellows, his eyes bloodshot and the beer can unsteady in his hand.
“And what about you?” Sarge asks, pointing to Tim’s crotch where a large wet spot sits. “Did you piss yourself, Tim?”
Tim looks down slowly, inspects his piss-coated sweatpants, and then his eyes trail back to us. He shrugs. “Would you look at that.”
Mac, standing now, makes his way toward us in zig-zagging, uncoordinated steps. “I’m a fucking wolf, man!” he yells, howling again. “Wolfpack, baby!”
“Mac, shut the fuck up,” I say, chuckling as I shake my head at him. “Where’s everybody else?”
“I’m a wolf,” Mac repeats, trying his best to look at me, but his eyes are distant.
I put two hands on his shoulders, forcing his eyes onto mine. “You drank too much, buddy. What’s everyone else up to?”
Mac sighs, his bourbon breath turning my stomach. “Downstairs. Zane went to bed and Jeremy is passed out. Brady’s hooking up with a chick.”
“What about Carter?”
“He’s in the basement. Drinking. Drunk.”
“By himself?”
Mac nods.
I look back toward Sarge, and he motions to the door.
“Go ahead, man. I’m just a short cab ride away from some more moonshine,” he says, passing me a wink.
I shift my eyes back toward Mac and pat him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Red.”
Mac nods, his eyelids fluttering. “I’m crashing on the couch tonight,” he mutters.
I pat him one more time before dropping my hands to my sides. “Y’all are gonna catch somethin’ from those couches one of these days.” I laugh as I slap hands with Sarge. “Have a good night, brother. And thank you.”
“No problem,” he says, pulling me in for a bro hug.
Before I let go of his hand, I say, “Really, I mean it. Thanks for trustin’ me enough to open up.”
He nods. “That’s what family’s for. Welcome to the Warrior Family, brother,” he says.
“Wait, what’s that even mean?” I ask. “You were supposed to tell me earlier, but then we got drunk.”
“Since 1922, any brother within the Warrior Family has served in the military.”
I nod approvingly. “Fuck yeah! I love that. Alright, man. Well, have a good night,” I say, making my way around the house to the side door. I can hear Mac’s heavy footfalls behind me. Heading through the door, I see Carter on the couch cradling a beer in his lap and Jeremy passed out next to him.
Mac beelines toward the bar.
“How you feelin’, man?” I ask, taking a seat beside Carter.
He takes a deep breath, belches, and responds, “Fucked. Up.”
I laugh, motioning toward Jeremy, who is angled awkwardly on the couch next to him, his mouth wide open and a puddle of drool on the cushion. “Fared better than him, at least. And let’s not even talk about Mac,” I say, my focus shifting toward Mac as he clunks around in the refrigerator.
He hiccups, his head wobbly as he looks over at me. “I feel like dog shit.”
“Yeah, I’m not faring too good myself. Gonna cab my ass home here in a few. Just wanted to check on you.”
He waves me off. “I’m good. I’m good. Going to crash here tonight.”
“Alright, man.”
“You know, Bishop,” he says, raising a finger in the air. “I’m really glad you’re doing this with us. I’m glad you’re our president.”
“I’m glad too, man. I probably wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for y’all.”
“I don’t think I would be either,” he says. He swallows thickly and then adds, “You know, I used to have a real brother. A sister, too.” His focus shifts to the TV, though it’s not on.
I’m caught off-guard, gulping. Hesitating, I study his darkening features before asking, “The car wreck?”
He nods, his face reddening, his focus still lost. “My mom was driving,” he mutters. “You might have heard about it.” His eyes eventually come back to mine. “It was all over the news. There was a documentary on it, too.” He says this with a spiteful tone.
“How long ago was it?”
“Back in 2005. I was fourteen. My mom was acting really weird, like she was drunk or something. But they found nothing in her system, or that’s what my dad always told me. I never brought myself to watch the documentary or read any of the articles. I want to keep my memory of her as it used to be. Before all the chaos.”
He picks at the beer label on his bottle, a wrinkle of exasperation etched on his forehead. “I can’t tell you how hard it was to ignore all that. It was a fucking circus. Everyone trying to figure out who to blame. But they really didn’t care. They just loved the ratings it got.” He hesitates, taking a deep breath and gulping.
“My mom killed five people that day,” he continues, and his words ice my veins, a shiver sweeping down my spine. He shakes his head, and I can see the sharp curves of his cheekbones as he clenches his jaw, the thick scar on his cheek tightening, his solemn eyes on the frayed beer bottle label he picks at.
“You don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t wanna, Carter. I appreciate you sharin’ what you have.”
He waves me off. “No, I want to. I don’t ever talk about it, and I get pissed at myself sometimes for pretending like it never happened. For pretending like they never existed.” He shakes his head firmly, his expression reading inner turmoil. “My grandma, my sister, my brother. And then the two in the Explorer. All gone. I was sleeping. It’s the only reason I survived, you know that? It’s like how drunks are always the only ones to survive a bad wreck. It’s why I can’t tell you what happened that day.”
“Oh fuck,” I mutter, remembering now exactly what he’s talking about. It had been all over the news for weeks. Months, even. I may have even watched the documentary at one point though I can’t recall much of it. Just the details he now lays on me—a wrong way crash, the mystery surrounding the mother and her behavior that day, and another bit of information from the documentary passes through my thoughts—a message she had left for her husband just before the crash.
“You remember it?” he asks.
I nod. “What’s Wrong with Mommy?” I ask, and he nods his head slowly, his eyes glistening over.
“That’d be it. You watched it?”
“I think I did, but I can’t recall anything from it, other than what you’ve just shared. Sorry, man.”
“Do you remember the message?”
I nod, my lips pinching together and brow furrowing as I find it hard to see him hurting as he is. He’s so young, and the whole world sits right in front of him, wide open and ready for the taking. Yet he suffers just as I do, for reasons much different than my own. I chose to join the Army. I chose to put myself in harm’s way. He was just a kid led astray down an unfair road.
“The police leaked the voicemail my mom left my dad just before the crash and the documentary crew and news people got their dirty little hands on it.” Tears well in his eyes. I want to console him somehow, but I don’t know how.
There’s a silence between us for a moment. I set my hand on his shoulder and I squeeze, which seems to allow a few more tears to fall.
“They just kept digging and digging. Of course they’d find something. Of course they would. And what did it do anyway? What did finding out my dad was having an affair and she knew about it have to do with fucking anything? It changed nothing!” he growls, dropping his head into his hands.
I move my hand to the nape of his neck, wanting to say something but left completely speechless.
“Ugh,” he groans, sitting up straight again. “Sorry, man. Not trying to be a bitch.” He lifts the beer bottle and shakes his head. “Fucking alcohol.”
Giving him another good squeeze, I say, “Hey man, don’t apologize for shit. Not a goddamn thing. We’ve all got our crosses to bear. It’s tough to share some of that shit, so I appreciate you makin’ the effort. And honestly, I knew from the moment I met you that there was somethin’ different. A deeper connection. Some commonality, you know? We’ve both suffered. I mean, really suffered. More than most of these fuckers at this school. We’re survivors, man. Remember that. And don’t beat yourself up too much about this stuff. I know it’s hard, but this wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t.”
Carter takes a deep breath, a bit of resolution taking up his features as he finishes off his beer. “How did you get past all the shit you’ve been through?” he asks.
I shake my head, responding, “Honestly, I don’t think that shit ever goes away, man. I sure the fuck ain’t gotten over the things I’ve been through. I’ve snuffed them out enough to exist in the present as best I can, but the experiences and thoughts, and all the shitty emotions that come along with them will always be up there …” I motion to my head. “Swirlin’ around, and just fuckin’ waitin’ to turn any normal day to shit.”
“Do you take anything to maybe help with it?”
“I’ve been on a few things over the years, but I could never stick it out. It’s nice to feel level-headed and all, but not when the tradeoff is losin’ all passion and personality. I felt like a zombie. And don’t even get me started on Zoloft. I could fuck for hours on that shit and still not come.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
“Yeah, maybe not if my own hand couldn’t even cut it. A man needs to clean the pipes.”
He laughs, nodding his head in agreement. “Yeah, that sucks.”
“I don’t know if pills are the answer anyhow. I mean, what do they really do? Block out the shit you’ve been through? Block out the negative memories and emotions? You can block them out for a spell, but that doesn’t mean they ain’t still there. Don’t mean they won’t come back and bite you down the road. I don’t know, I’ve just always liked facin’ that shit head-on. Grab that pint of liquor and ice cream, throw on a comedy, and just fuckin’ embrace the shit. Sometimes you just gotta accept the crappy days for what they are and hope tomorrow brings you better.”
“How often is tomorrow better?” he asks, and I hesitate briefly, thinking on his question.
Finally, I say, “Not as often as I’d like. It’s hard most days. I have to remind myself often how much worse it could be. How much worse it has been.”
He nods. “Yeah, I think that’s why I started keeping it to myself back in the day. I always got the feeling people thought I was digging for sympathy, and that’s the last thing I want. I hate that look of pity people give me.”
“Yes! I get that same damn look when people ask about my eye. Like, ‘fuck you, take your pity elsewhere.’ I’ve got buddies who look nothin’ like they used to, thanks to the unrelentin’ fuckin’ brutality of fire when it meets skin. Guys that’ll shit in bags for the rest of their lives. I can’t feel sorry for myself, so I refuse to let others feel sorry for me.” I hesitate for a moment before adding, “It’s a tough battle to fight on your own, though. So just know you can talk to me whenever, and I’ll never view it as a ploy for sympathy. Not ever. That’s not how friendship works. And what you’ve been through …” I shake my head. “That’s some heavy shit. You deserve to unburden yourself sometimes.”
“I appreciate that, Bish. And same goes for you.”
Realizing I haven’t heard a peep from Mac since my conversation with Carter started, I crane my head toward the bar and eye it curiously.
“What the hell happened with Mac? Did he sneak out of here while we were talkin’ and I didn’t notice?”
Carter looks over too and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He was being stupid loud. We would’ve heard him.”
“Yeah, he said he was stayin’ the night here too,” I say, standing and making my way over to the bar.
As I approach, the first thing I notice is the mini-fridge door wide open, and then Mac’s hand covered in a pile of toppled beer bottles. He’s on the floor in front of the mini-fridge, his hand still inside. He lets out a light snore.
I laugh loudly, motioning for Carter. “Dude, you gotta see this.”
Carter approaches my side and cracks up upon seeing Mac in his current state.
“Fuckin’ lightweight.” I laugh, making my way around the bar and crouching down next to him.
“Hey Mac, get up, dude.” I nudge his back and he stirs but doesn’t wake. “Mac!” I repeat, louder now, and he raises his head slowly, looking at his hand first, buried in cold beer bottles at the bottom of the fridge, and then over at me through the slits of his eyelids.
“My hand’s cold,” he mutters, laying his head back to the floor as he shivers.
“That makes sense, considerin’ your current predicament,” I respond, laughing. “Get up, dude. It’s time to get you reacquainted with the semen couch.”