The Morning After

Saturday morning, I woke up in my car, which was located in the parking lot of a low rent go go club on Nebraska Avenue. The sky had opened up and dropped rain by the gallons. My head hurt so bad, I could feel it in my teeth. My own mouth tasted like shit to me. I rummaged through my center console for a mint, but found only miscellaneous garbage and an old pen. Eventually, I located a cigarette, lit it, rolled the window down, and got myself soaking wet.

I put out the cigarette and drove to a gas station where I purchased a cup of crappy coffee. I noticed that my wallet had only $9 in it. The last time I remembered seeing my wallet, it had over $180 in it. Of course, that had been a while ago. And things do change.

I drove to the nearest Denny's and ordered myself a plate of fried grease from the grizzled, old counter lady.

"You look bad, even for here and now," the old lady told me after she brought my coffee.

"Thanks," I muttered.

I didn't even have the brain power to muster a comeback.

I ate quickly and in relative silence. Also, I didn't make eye contact with anyone. Now, I'm not one of those urban survival losers who thinks that if you make eye contact with total strangers, you'll end up dead. In fact, I think very much the opposite of that philosophy. I mean, how can you have fun if you aren't out meeting people? But well, a Denny's in Tampa at 5 AM on a Saturday is not a good time and place to strike up conversation. Plus, it hurt to talk.

"Check, please," I said as I finished.

"Oh, don't worry about it," said the grizzled, old counter woman. "She picked you up."

I looked over to where the old lady had pointed. There, two girls in sweat pants and two guys covered in tattoos drank coffee and chatted.

"Which one?" I asked.

"Not sure," she replied.

"But you're sure it was a girl?" I asked.

"No," she said. "That was a guess."

I put $2 on the counter and walked over to the table in question.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to thank whoever bought my?"

"Don't worry about it, Nate," said one of the men.

"Yeah," said the other man. "It was our pleasure; it was a blast hanging out with you last night."

"Thanks," I said, totally unsure who in the hell these people were.

"And congratulations on the baseball thingy," said the darker of the two girls.

"It's called the World Series, you dumb whore," said one of the men.

"Fuck you," said the girl as everyone else at the table erupted in laughter.

I thanked them again and left.

God, I have to quit drinking. I'm serious, now. One of these days and all that?

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