Night in the Ruts

DOESN'T ANYONE SPEAK AMERICAN?! - Nicky

"You're high," she said with a smirk.

        I shake my head.  Actually, I'm not high at all.  Completely sober–and let me tell you, it sucks.  What kind of dickhead tries to hold his best friend's hand over the fucking gearshift and then say Because I like you?  Note to self: Never allow yourself to be sober again because you're terrible at girls.

        "You're not?" Charlie asks, incredulous.  I nod, looking out the window feeling absolutely mental.  Why would she want to hold my hand?  She wouldn't.  Simple.  Wait:

        Why would I want to hold her hand?  I shouldn't.

        So what do I do?  I reach into my pocket and pull out the wonderful colorful paper that makes everything better.  Charlie groans.  "Do you really have to do that?"

        "Yeah.  Do you want one?" I ask, placing a tab on my tongue.

        Charlie merely shakes her head, not liking my lifestyle.  She really has a problem with this?  What do I care; I've been doing it since I discovered why acid-bands are specifically called acid-bands.  Thanks to the Pink Floyd concert I saw freshman year.

        I like the feeling and there's nothing she can do about it.

--

There ended up not being a movie, so we cruised through the town, perusing bars and whatnot, trying to find a place with music.  There wasn't really anything interesting, so I suggested that we go home.  We went to my house.

        I hope my dad left.  My family's pretty fucked.  Like, Charlie's family is nothing compared to mine.  You see, my dad moved to Vegas about two years after I was born.  My mom found a boyfriend and he now lives with us most of the time.  I hate him.  He knows when I'm fucked and he tells my mom and she watches me like a hawk for the rest of the day.

        Occasionally my dad'll come to visit.  The weird thing is that he'll stay at home and I'll have to spend whatever time he has with him.  But I do not stay the night.  No, sir.  I either sneak out or do something or the sort.  My mom and her boyfriend are perfectly fine with dad sleeping down on the couch.  I don't know why, but that's the way it's been ever since I can remember.

        Do you want to know why my dad moved to Vegas?  A., he got some... Surgery done.  My father has proudly flaunted a D-sized rack for the past eleven years.  B., he said it was the only place he could truly be accepted.  C., there were many more job offerings for him out there.

        Every weekend, he is the singing star of the show at some local strip club.  He hooked up with my Biology teacher and then he too moved out to Vegas with my dad.  Mr. Watts plays the piano for my dad and his group of dancing girls and (depending on the night) guys.

        The guys wear spandex shorts and suspenders; maybe a bow-tie and a rain-hat if you're lucky.  They turn the sprinklers on and the guys do this routine with umbrellas and it's really fucking scary if you're eight years old.

        However when you're fourteen and it's Saturday (when the girls dance), it's kinda nice... If you can ignore the fact that your father is dancing and singing in a little black cocktail dress while your Biology teacher plays the piano and makes eyes at him.

        Anyway, dad came home for a little bit.  He's been practicing a new routine which involves feathers, a top hat, and a bunch of white doves.  He's got the voice of an eighty year old woman who sang in the church choir all her life and smoked seventeen packs a day.