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Chapter 9

Tyler Emery

The wind filled my truck cab as I drove Drew and myself to the best night of our lives. I could hear the whispering of the trees, the wheels of the other motorists, and the cacophony of the cicadas that never seemed to end. Drew's eyes were closed in the dark, feeling the cool air and excitement of the upcoming night bright and alive in the cab around us. I let out a whoop, hopping in my seat. The alcohol was still in me, but it was playing subtle notes in the background instead of being center stage, lead singer of a screaming death metal band. Drew had basically shoveled a five course meal into my mouth the minute we stumbled into my house, everything from week old hot dogs to HotPouches he found shoved into the very depths of my freezer. Everything was thrown on a plate in front of me, and I sat there for more than an hour, sipping water in between bites. I kept complaining that my stomach wasn't used to this kind of devastating meal, and he always replied that I hadn't eaten in two days so I was making up for it. Then he dumped more cheddar crackers onto my plate.

Emily's house wasn't hard to find, but it was creepily placed. She lived in the part of town inhabited by drug dealers, career alcoholics, and rednecks so addicted to large and oversized televisions, they couldn't afford to eat. Every home we passed, I couldn't help but picture myself in it, as if the place was calling me to my inevitable future. There I could picture myself sleeping on my porch as the grass grew and died in my front lawn, and I only moved to use the bathroom, get food, and get more beer. There I could see myself slapping my wife across the face with a cheap bottle of wine that she bought as a present, not knowing I was already drunk off my feet. And finally I could see myself planted like a potato on a couch, watching SportsCenter with glazed over eyes, and a son sitting beside me who was turning out to be just like me. All of the images gave me chills, shudders racing up my spine and rioting down my bare arms. I quickly shook my head and focused on the road beneath the wavering headlights.

Emily's house was small, quaint, and dirty. Cars and trucks were scattered like colorful beetles across her lawn that was strewn with cigarette butts, red cups, chip bags, several shoes, and crushed purses that had been thrown from hands in wild moments. The house was brick and had shutters framing the three windows in the front. A broken and dilapidated pair of outdoor chairs littered the porch and looked absolutely pathetic under the flickering porch light. Teenagers were slipping from shadow to shadow, bobbing their heads and waving their arms to the house music that slithered out of the home's open windows and door. Drew and I pulled up next to a rusted cream Volkswagon beetle, and he was out like a cat escaping a pool of water.

"Where do you think she is?" he asked me conspiratorially as I loped around the front of truck, sliding the keys into the pocket of my blue jeans and yawning. Drew was all kinds of anxious, his fingers fiddling nervously and his eyes flitting from the girl leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette and beckoning to him with her heavily lidded eyes, to the guy puking in the bushes by the porch. It was barely nine o'clock, and people were already getting wasted.

"Probably at a neighbors' house, calling the cops and begging them to get all of the waste products off her lawn." My tone was easy going and lazy as my eyes slowly surveyed the property and the party ahead of me.

Drew shoved me almost-playfully against the truck and started to hop from one foot to the other. "I'm serious, man. She's cute. Really cute. Plus, we have your conditions for tonight."

I straightened up and saluted him, my face immediately becoming stone faced like the army officers that Colin tried to join, but even they didn't want him. "Sir, yes, sir. I must get Emily Miller to make eye contact with you for longer than a fourth of a millisecond, I can only drink one beer, and I am not allowed to converse with underage females. I remember, sir." I clicked my heels and lowered my arm to my side, feeling like a performing dolphin at OceanWorld, doing everything to get that piece of fish. A part of me, a part I didn't like to indulge, kept whispering that maybe if I was good, Drew would let me have another beer, or if he and Emily really hit it off, he'd be too distracted to monitor my alcohol intake. I patted his shoulder fatherly, "Relax son, everything will turn out. Mom is with the waste product until late, so we basically have no curfew, and who wouldn't love an annoying artist with carrot hair? You're like the total package."