The Billionaire Throuple

Nehemiah Jones

Bart's liquor is always slammed on Friday nights. I don't mind it so much 'cause it makes the time go by quicker, but I really could've used a break an hour ago.

Right now I got poor, eighty year old Linda watching the counter while I take a leak and check messages on my phone. I let Ma know I won't be home until late, I tell my little brother Scooter I can't drive him nowhere and my boy Tyson that I got plans. I sent the thumbs up to Sammy about picking up chow from Luciano's.

I ain't excited about one-on-one time with the poor guy. I mean, poor emotionally, 'cause he's absolutely loaded. He's got that 'show up driving a different car every day of the week type' money, but I don't let it bother me. It's not that I don't like him. He tutors me for free, so he's cool and all, but rolling up to anyone's eighteenth as the only guest is awkward as hell. I let Andreas know he's bogus for skipping, but I ain't trying to leave nobody high and dry.

I know how that feels. Real talk.

When I came out as gay at the beginning of football season, everybody was supportive as hell. I mean, in this day and age it's hard not to at least pretend, but I didn't know they was pretending.

I guess it was hard to go against me when I was the man behind the ball, taking all the snaps and throwing all the touchdown passes, but as soon as I got hurt, they all changed up. I still have a few of my day ones that I kick it with when they wanna hit up a party or drink up some liquor, but it ain't nothing like before.

It sucks that it took a career ending concussion to put shit into perspective for me and I can't even pretend it's just lesson learned, on to the next one. I didn't have no back-up plan if football didn't work out.

Bart's liquor is the backup plan and it's depressing as hell. For real. The only thing good about working here is that I can cop a handful of minis without anyone noticing. You know, get a little head start on drowning my sorrows. Wish I was kidding. I can't wait to finish up the year and get my diploma. I'll get a factory job or something with upward mobility.

*****

There's a knock on the door. It's a feeble, bad joke of a knock, so I know it's Linda. I say, "I'll be right out, girl chill!" and give her a real knock back. I know she can't be too mad, at least she better not be. I been busting my ass all night and I know she likes it when I call her girl. It makes her feel like she's forty years younger and all that.

She lets out a frail laugh and I can tell she slapped her knee even though I don't hear it. I been around her long enough. "Alright, no rush, but I have to grab some Henny from the back and I can't leave the floor unattended."

I laugh 'cause I'm the one that got her calling it Henny. That and I know 'no rush' means 'rush'. People ain't trying to wait around for no bottle of liquor on a Friday night. They gotta be pissed off watching her hobble back up to the front, empty-handed.

I shake it off, zip my pants up and survey the bathroom real quick. It's a hot mess, but I ain't staying one minute past my time to clean up grown man piss off the floor and walls.

I grab some paper towels from the dispenser, use them to pick up the scraps off the floor and consider that my good deed for the day. I wash my hands and check myself out in the mirror.

I know my teeth ain't perfect, so I don't bother smiling. My fade is tight enough that I won't feel like a bum around Sammy, but I should probably get it touched up this weekend.

Now that football is behind me, I can't afford to be slipping. I always took care of myself, even then, but honestly, I've been hitting the gym a lot more since the concussion. As the six-foot-three, one-hundred-eighty pound, starting QB on scholarship at Glory Hill Prep, I made an impression without saying a word, but things have changed now.