There ain’t no girls in this town

By Gavin | October 29, 2009

A work of fiction. … mostly.

 

It’s almost impossible for a northerner to move to the south and make friends without receiving the nickname Yankee.  You’d need something like a cleft chin, in which case you’d be called Butt Chin or Old Butt Face, to avoid this.  You have two options when nicknamed Yankee: you can either get mad, which only encourages more taunting, or, you can accept and embrace your role as the outsider.  If you go with the former, steer clear of Civil War jokes.  It’s still kind of a touchy subject, and it will force your new acquaintances to call you Yankee in an unfriendly manner.  The proper course of action is to laugh and be proud that you’ve been given a nickname at all.  Southerners will “take a-liken to you,” and, before you know it, you’ll be able to get away with making General Sherman references during marathon sessions of Texas Hold’em.

            All Civil War, incest, and Dale Earnhardt jokes will fall on deaf ears, though, if you admit to your new poker buddies that you’ve never gone fishing a day in your life.  Fishing is a staple of poker table conversation in the south, and when I made this colossal mistake, I was looked upon as if I had just said I didn’t know how to ride a bicycle.  My friends’ faces were a mixture of shock and repulsion.  Feeling as if I had embarrassed anglers throughout western Pennsylvania, I backpedaled. 

            “Seriously, tons of people fish up north,” I said.  “I didn’t because of my dad.”

            Blaming shit on your daddy is acceptable in the south.  But, don’t you dare say a Goddamn thing about your momma.  Or, anyone else’s for that matter.

            “My dad was into cars, not fishing,” I said.  “Growing up, you always do the hobbies that your dad does, right?”

            Southerners understand and embrace this logic, especially when it’s your turn to bet.  If any of your new southern buddies is worth his weight in sweet tea, which, by the way, is the unofficial method of measuring the value of a southerner, he will demand to teach you how to fish.

            Rusty Wilcox taught me how to fish in 2005.  We were sports writers for the Bradford Daily Courier.  It was a shitty newspaper in an even shittier southern Virginia town, or, maybe it was a shitty town with an even shittier newspaper.  I’m still not sure which.  Bradford is home to a NASCAR racetrack.  Actually, Bradford Speedway is outside the city limits and, therefore, sits on Moon County soil.  Don’t mention this fact to Bradford folk like Rusty, though.  Bradford is such a hellhole that people cling to anything for a source of pride.  At one time during the 1990s, Bradford had more murders per capita than any other city in America, and people brag about that to this day. 

People in Bradford need something to brag about, I guess. 

The furniture industry packed up and left town in the 1980s, and now it’s just another exit on U.S. 220, at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, somewhere between Roanoke and nowhere.

            Rusty taught me the basics of fishing on Lake George, a private body of water down the street from his parents’ house, which was where he lived, reluctantly.  What bass that were actually living in George were about as big as my hand.  That, plus the fact that Rusty had fished there his entire life, made the lake an unsavory spot to cast our reels.  There was a pond behind the house of a predominant local lawyer, and we fished there occasionally.  But, we became worried about overstaying our welcome after we hauled six catfish out of his pond in late May.  By late June, Rusty had caught seven more cats that day.  He beamed with pride as he dealt the cards one night, everyone at the table but me believing him.

There was the reservoir and the Dan River, but they were so over-fished that even Rusty struggled to get bites.  By July, we were dying to find a new place to fish.

            The Daily Courier didn’t have a Saturday edition.  So, on Friday nights in the summer, when high school sports coverage seemed like a looming doom, Rusty and I were able to take off and try to find fun.  One such day in late July we decided to go fishing at this badass pond that Rusty swore existed near the speedway.  It was hot, close to 100, and Rusty wanted to push his dad’s johnboat into the water around 8 o’clock, right when the sun began to disappear behind the hills and the bass emerged from their cool hiding spots in the depths of the pond.

            “You’re gonna love this pond,” Rusty said.

            We were sitting on his back porch drinking and smoking.  Rusty’s Ford Ranger had just been loaded with the essential equipment.

            “I think I was in high school the last time I fished there,” he said, and then hit the blunt.  “I caught three six-pound bass.  It was ridiculous.”

            “So, why exactly did you wait till now to take me there then?” I said, swaying back and forth in the swing.

            “I forgot the place existed.  You see, Yankee, I’ve been smoking pot since I was 13.  If I’m still smoking when I’m 50, I probably won’t remember my name.”

            Rusty and I had a lot in common.  We were 24, single and loved poker, women, football, basketball, drinking, and smoking weed – not necessarily in that order.  Our political opinions leaned toward the left, and we shared the same sick, vulgar sense of humor that’s almost a requirement for being a sports writer.

            “This is done,” I said, stuffing the roach in an empty beer can. 

“Let’s chill here a minute,” Rusty said.

            He was in his dad’s rocking chair, and I was on the swing.  The sun wasn’t ready to go down just yet, but you could feel dusk approaching.  The trees in Rusty’s backyard gave us shade, and there was a light breeze.  Sweat began to dry on the back of my neck.  Crickets chirped.  Suddenly, a car door closed in front of the house.

            “My mom’s home,” Rusty said.  “Let’s roll.”

            As Mrs. Wilcox entered the front door, we tore out of the driveway, laughing as if we had just eluded the county sheriff.

            “Hey Yankee, crack open a beer for me, will ya?” Rusty said.

            I reached into the back of the cab and got two cans of Budweiser out of a red cooler.  I opened a can and handed it to him, and then I opened the other one for myself.  We both took long sips. 

            “This is what goin’ fishing’s all about right here, Yankee,” Rusty said.

            “Man, I love goin’ fishing,” I said.  “I can’t believe I didn’t take this up sooner.”

A moment later, Rusty received a phone call from a college pal who was getting married in a month.  The guy’s bachelor party was a week away, and he wanted to touch base with Rusty.  The truck was standard shift.  Rusty couldn’t drink his beer, drive, and hold his phone at the same time.  That would’ve been down right dangerous.  So, he put the phone on speaker and clipped it to his visor.  I agreed with this solution in theory only.  I wasn’t too keen on listening to the conversation for two reasons. 

First, there was the obvious awkwardness.  The poor bastard on the other end had no idea I was there.  What if he admitted to having sex with a one-armed transvestite hooker?  That’s a secret that should be kept between Good Ole Boys.  Second, there was the fact that I knew Rusty knew I was paying attention.  Sure, I looked out the window and pretended to daydream.  But, who was I kidding?  The conversation began when we were at the end of Rusty’s street.  It continued as we zigzagged through Bradford and hopped on Route 58.  It didn’t end until we had passed the speedway and were in the middle of Chestnut Ridge.  The entire time, I was hanging on every last word.

“What a dumbass,” Rusty said, hanging up.

We had just turned off of 58 and were on a road with woods on the left and little, white ranch houses on the right.  One of the houses actually had used tires fencing a flowerbed.  Until that moment, I thought that was just a redneck stereotype.

“That guy graduated from Carolina with me, moved to Richmond for a high-paying job, and proposed to the first girl he started dating,” Rusty said.  “What a fucking dumbass.”

            “Most guys who get married in their early 20s are pretty retarded,” I said.

            “Not only that, but he’s marrying some stupid Yankee bitch.”

            “Um, my mom’s some stupid Yankee bitch.”

            “You know what I mean.”  Rusty couldn’t help smiling.  “And, what’s worse is this chick is a bossy fucking Long Island slut with that Goddamn accent.  Every time I’ve met her, all she does is order him around.”

            “Long Island chick, huh?  Italian, right?”

            “Yup, big time.”

            “She’s not bossy then.  She’s just Eye–talian.  Huge difference.  Huge difference.”

“I’m sensing there’s a huge difference.”

“Oh Rusty, you see, you’re not familiar with Italian chicks because they aren’t indigenous to shitty rural southern towns such as this.  Richmond, on the other hand, is a somewhat major city and probably has a rather sizeable population of ’em, and they are a different breed a-woman.”

            “Thank God they’re not down here then ’cause this chick he’s marrying is a fucking world class bitch.”

            “Is she hot?”

            “Oh yeah, smoking, but she has that accent.  It’s worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.”

              “Funny, a lot of northerners feel the same way about the southern accent.  Me, I think both accents are hit or miss.  Now, the Pittsburgh accent, that’s an accent you can really sink your teeth into.”

            “Sink your teeth into?”  Rusty laughed.  “What the hell does that even mean?”

            “It means it’s time for another beer.”

            I opened the back window and tossed my empty can into the truck bed, which was cluttered with everything from a snow shovel, to an orange cone, to a year’s worth of empty beer cans.  My can bounced off the snow shovel and landed on a pile of cans.  Rusty and I laughed at the can-on-can sound.  I reached into the red cooler and grabbed another Budweiser. 

            “I think this is it,” Rusty said, downshifting and putting on his blinker.

He turned right onto a narrow side road and drove up a short hill in second gear.  The road curved to the right and then flattened.  There was a big house to the left.  Rusty seemed confused, looking back and forth repeatedly.

            “This it?” I said.

            “Um, I don’t think so,” he said.  “No, I don’t recognize this place at all.”

            The street split two houses, and then the asphalt ended, making way for a dirt road that went down a hill into the woods. 

            “That pond’s gotta be ’round here somewhere,” Rusty said, as we started down the dirt road.  He let out a Rebel yell, which made us both laugh. 

“Seriously, though, I’m not sure we’re allowed to be driving down this,” he said.

            Rusty drove over an enormous crater, and the truck jolted violently.  Beer flew out of my can and all over my crotch.  Rusty accused me of pissing my pants, and we both laughed. 

The dirt road put us back on the road we turned onto from Route 58.  Rusty looked back and forth.

            “I know the turn is somewhere off this road,” he said.

            Rusty turned right and drove the length of the road.  It put us back on Route 58.  The road was a big loop.

            “Where the fuck is this pond?” Rusty said.

            He pulled into a random driveway and successfully completed a three-point turn without jackknifing or killing anyone.  We drove back down the road in the direction we came.  I didn’t say a word, just stared out my window, searching for this phantom pond.  By the time we hit 58 again, I was ready to give up the search.  Not Rusty, though.  He drove up and down the road five more times.  All the while, he was on his phone, calling one high school buddy after another, trying to find someone who remembered the badass pond in Chestnut Ridge where he once supposedly caught three six-pound bass.

            After five of his buddies told him they had no idea what he was talking about, Rusty reeked of defeat.

            “So, what’s the plan?” I said.

            We were sitting at a red light along 58.  Rusty flipped on the headlights.  Dusk had arrived.

            “Your weak Yankee bladder ready to burst, yet?” he said.

            “No,” I said.  “I’m on beer No. 6, so I can probably pound two more before it’s an emergency.  I am getting kind of hungry, though.”

            “There’s a pond out in Bensenville near Hilltop Lake that’s pretty good.  If we hurry, we can stop, go to the bathroom, get dinner and get there before it’s completely dark.”

            “Let’s do it.”

            “Glad you’re aboard, Yankee.  Now, crack me open another Bud, will ya?”

            We hit the highway, and Rusty blasted his stereo.  Along with teaching me how to fish, he also was trying to convert me into a bluegrass fanatic.  Maybe it was the weed I smoked whenever I hung out with Rusty, but I “took a-liken” to the music.  Rusty threw in Tim O’Brien’s Songs From the Mountain and played “Raleigh and Spencer.”  Rusty was that guy who sang in the car regardless of whether or not he was alone.  He belted out the chorus:

            “Raleigh and Spencer was burning down,

            “There ain’t no liquor in this town,

            “There ain’t no liquor in this town.”

            We stopped at Bojangles, a fast-food chicken place that you can only find in the south.  I broke the seal and bought dinner.  Rusty did the same.  He beat me outside, and when I exited the restaurant, he was in the truck, the engine running.

            “C’mon, Yankee, let’s go,” he yelled out the window.

            I ran the last 20 yards and hopped in the truck, slamming the door behind me.

            “I know you said we had to hurry, but if we get there and it’s too dark, we get there and it’s too dark,” I said, buckling up.  “Know what I’m saying?”

            “Normally, yes,” he said, exiting the parking lot.  “But, tonight, no.”

            “What’s with the urgency?”  

He let out a long sigh.  “I’m doing a horrible job teaching you how to fish.  It’s been three months, and you still can’t tie a hook properly.  You’ve broken two poles – two of ’em.  Every time we’ve gone out, you’ve hooked a tree that’s fallen into the water, and each time, without fail, you start reeling it in and say, ‘Oh, I think I got one.’”  He laughed.  “It’s totally my fault.  As your teacher, your failures are my failures.” 

            With that, we drove into Bensenville, which consists of a gas station, a Food Lion, a Hardee’s, a used car dealership, a golf course, a dollar store, a Walgreen’s, and two traffic lights.  Oh, and railroad tracks.  We crossed the railroad tracks and took a right onto Route 57.  The road curved up a hill to the left, and Rusty clicked on the high beams so oncoming cars could see him around the bend.  The cool air felt good on my right arm as it dangled out the window.

            “I know the turn’s around here somewhere,” Rusty said.  “I’ve been here a 1,000 times with Edward.”

            Thirty minutes later, we were parked on the side of the road.  I was devouring my chicken sandwich, and Rusty was pacing in front of the truck, trying to get directions from his buddy Edward.

            “Hello,” Rusty said.  “Edward, can you hear me?  Huh?  Can you hear me now?  Edward?  After you turn right and go up the hill then what?  Edward, can you hear me now?”

            Rusty slammed his phone shut and got back in the truck.  “I can’t get any fucking reception,” he said.

            “Let’s just go to Hilltop,” I said.

            “No.  Hell no.  I hate that damn lake.  I’ve never caught a thing there my entire life, and I’ve probably gone with Edward 500 times.”

            “Here,” I said, holding out my phone.  “I have all my bars, but not Edward’s number.”

            “Sweetness,” Rusty said, taking it.  He flipped open his phone to get Edward’s number.  As soon as he opened it, though, he let out a long sigh and closed it again.  “And now my phone’s dead.”  He handed back my phone.  “I didn’t charge it this morning, and I don’t have Edward’s number memorized.” 

            The only friend of Rusty’s whose number I had was Joel.  He lived in a little shack in Bensenville and grew and sold marijuana – extremely good marijuana.

            “I have Joel’s number,” I said.

            “Joel won’t know where the pond is, but I’ll call him anyway,” Rusty said, taking back my phone.

            Rusty was right.  Joel didn’t know.  But, 10 minutes later, we were sitting in the Food Lion parking lot, waiting for Joel to deliver an eighth of weed.  We were at the edge of the parking lot, where there weren’t any lights.  It was getting pretty dark.  Rusty was tearing apart his chicken sandwich.  I’d finished eating and was back to drinking.

            “You and your friend didn’t mention strippers earlier?” I said.  “Please tell me there’s gonna be a stripper or five at this bachelor party.”

            “None,” Rusty said.

            “None?”

            “None.”

            “Why the hell not?”

            “That Long Island bitch won’t let him.”

            “How the fuck is she gonna know?”

            “She wouldn’t.  But, the man has no fucking balls.  Thus, he’s getting married before he’s 25.”

            We sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, him eating his chicken and me digesting the notion of a bachelor party without strippers.

            “That dude has no balls, but every now and then, I wish I was a pussy-whipped bastard with a hot girlfriend,” I said. 

            “Interesting,” Rusty said in between bites.

“I mean, at least that guy’s getting steady pussy,” I said.  “I haven’t gotten laid in three months.”

“And that was Coon-tang.”

Coon-tang, AKA Raccoon Girl, was the assistant manager of the Chestnut Ridge Walgreen’s.  She had long black hair, extremely pale skin, and lived in a trailer by herself.  She wore so much eyeliner that Rusty said she looked like a raccoon, hence the nickname.  She had an enormous 70’s-style bush and the IQ of a dingle berry.  I slept with her once and promptly stopped talking to her.

“Quit reminding me about that,” I said.  “It’s bad enough I have to see her at the bar.  Christ, Coon-tang was one of four girls at Hurley’s last night.  The place was packed, but there were only four fucking girls.”

            “Ten dudes for every chick,” Rusty said, nodding his head.

            “And none of ’em were hot.  Coon-tang was the only one without kids.  Two of them were married, and that one looked like she’d just escaped a concentration camp.”

            “That’s Amy.  She’s a coke whore.  If you buy some coke, and invite her out to your car to do a line, she’ll suck your dick.”

            “Nice.  I might have to give that a try.”

            “You don’t want that.  That’s a good way to get herpes.  You almost have to take a vow of abstinence in this town – just drink and play poker and fish and have fun.”  He paused and thought about it a moment.  “Jesus, getting one of these trailer park whores pregnant would ruin your life.”

            I took a long drink of beer.  “God, I miss college.”

            “Me too, Yankee, me too.”

            After Joel delivered the pot, we headed back into Bradford.  It was 10 p.m.  Rusty pulled into a carwash, and as he backed the johnboat into one of the ports, I asked what we were doing.

            “I can’t park a dry johnboat in the driveway,” Rusty said.  He cut the engine, got out of the truck, and looked back inside at me.  “My dad has been home for at least three hours, and he thinks I’ve been fishing this whole time.” 

            “Oh, I get it,” I said.  “You don’t want him knowing you’ve been out drinking and driving.”

            Johnny shook his head.  “No, silly Yankee, I don’t want him to know that I’ve been driving around for over three hours and couldn’t find a fucking pond.  He’d lose all respect for me.”

            I got out of the truck and watched Rusty hose the sides of the boat.  He decided to soak the bottom.  He handed me the oars and told me to lean them against the wall.  I did, and then we lifted the boat off the trailer and rested it upside down on the ground.  As Rusty began to spray the boat, he pointed to the Exxon next door.

            “You know how many people have been killed there?” he said.  I shrugged.  “Back in the 90s, when Bradford was the murder capital of the country, about once a month someone got shot right behind there.  It was crazy.  Bradford was featured on an HBO special.”

            “Interesting,” I said.

            “So you wanna go to the bar, and then head back to Karl’s to play poker?”

            “Sounds like a plan.  What are we gonna tell everyone about this fishing journey during poker?”

            “We’re gonna tell ’em the truth: That we found a nice pond in Bensenville, and I caught a shitload of bass that were all too small to keep.  The amount will vary depending on how drunk I get.  And, we’ll say that you lost two lures before finally catching a tree branch that had fallen into the water.”

            We both laughed our asses off.

            “Does your Yankee-ass need to go home and change?”

            I was wearing a white and blue 1998 Verona 5K T-shirt, a Cubs hat that had faded from blue to gray, blue dress shorts that were missing four belt loops, and five year old Nikes with no socks.

“No,” I said.  “You?”

Rusty was wearing a white Redskins t-shirt, a blue NAPA hat, kaki cargo shorts that had green paint all over them from the summer he painted houses in Chapel Hill, and Adidas flip flops. 

“Nah,” he said.  “I’m ready for the bar.”

 

            A week later, Rusty broke down and took me to Hilltop Lake.  We got there just before 6 a.m.  Fog was still hovering over parts of the water.  Rusty backed the trailer into the lake, and then we slid the johnboat into the water.  It was up to our knees and cold.

“Hey, where are the oars?” Rusty said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

We were on either side of the boat, looking at each other.  A moment passed, and then, finally, Rusty sighed and said, “Left ‘em at the carwash.”

I suggested calling it a morning.  We had been drinking the night before, and I had about two hours of sleep.  Rusty called me a pussy and told me I had nothing to worry about.  He actually said the motor “purred like a kitten.”  After hearing that, I grabbed the snow shovel and brought it as a backup.  The move saved us.  The motor died when we were in the middle of the lake.  The fog had lifted, and the sun was shining just above the tree line.  Rusty tried desperately, but couldn’t get it started again.

            “I fucking hate this lake,” he said, finally quitting.  “Let’s go back.”

            I dug the plastic snow shovel into the water and rowed.  It was awkward at first, but I got the hang of it.  Rusty cracked open a Budweiser behind me.

            “So, the cold streak ended?” he said.

            “Yup,” I said.

             “Coon-tang?”

            “Yup.”

            “How did you lure her back to your place?  Fresh garbage and chicken bones?”

            “You know damn well my options are limited.”

            “We could go to the Comfort Inn and start hitting on black girls.”

            “I have no problem with black girls, but didn’t some guy get stabbed at the bar there last week?”

            “Yeah, that’s probably a bad idea.  What about the community college?  We could start hanging out there; maybe eat lunch in the cafeteria.  There’s a small population of girls in Moon County who are hot, but were too dumb to escape and go to a real four-year college after high school.  They stick around here for two years until they move to Roanoke or Greensboro.”

            “So, we just start hanging at the community college?  Brilliant.  Maybe we should grow mustaches, buy a van, and offer little girls candy to get inside.”

            “Or, we could start railing out high school girls.  We’re gonna be covering enough high school sports here soon anyway.”

            “Well, Rusty, they’d have to be 18, and even then, it’s a recipe for disaster.  High school girls are beyond retarded.”

            “I know.  I was joking, Yankee.”  I heard him take a sip.  “Well, I guess you’re stuck with good ole Coon-tang.”

            I stood up and tried to shovel water on him.  It wasn’t a sneak attack of any sort.  As I lifted the shovel out of the lake, Rusty grabbed the sides of the boat and rocked it back and forth.  I lost my balance and tripped headfirst overboard.  The cold water felt like a slap in the face.  When I floated to the surface, I started coughing.  I’m that guy who has to hold his nose when he jumps into a pool, and I didn’t have time to prepare for the impromptu swim.  Rusty was laughing his ass off.  He got himself under control around the same time I stopped coughing.  He finished his can of beer and looked down at me treading water. 

            “Stupid Yankee,” he said, holding back another laughing fit.  “Doesn’t anyone teach you northern boys not to stand up in a boat?”

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Reaction to Yeungs and Wings

By Gavin | August 3, 2009
Gavin,

I just made time to read your wings story.  It does a good job of
capturing three points of view and the place each character is at as the
(new) Iraq War begins.  The writing is good, and some of the lines, such
as the men talking about the war being over in a month and the Iraqis
applauding the Americans, carry a nice sting.  What I take from the
story--though I'm not sure it's what I'm supposed to get--is that Jen is
a hypocrite and as complicit in condoning the war in her way as anyone
else.  But that doesn't quite feel like enough somehow.  No one is
really sympathetic in the end but the fat guy, and he's a pig and
obviously has eating issues beyond the occasional wings contest.  So no
one is sympathetic?  The story does a good job of showing the value of
the war as entertainment, and that the lives of these three aren't
really touched by it, even if some of them relish the thought that they
have a personal stake in it.  Is that what a reader should get?
-------
That is part of what I'm trying to say with the story. The first thing
> I'm trying to do is paint a picture of that moment in American
> history. There were only three ways to look at the war in March 2003:
> Hell yeah let's stick a boot in their ass, I could care less; make
> this war go away; it's interrupting my originally scheduled program;
> and this war is wrong; it's all about the oil; Bush is Satan. The back
> drop of the sports bar is meant to show 1) how detached America was
> from the war.  We could just change the channel and it went away, but
> as Jen proves while trying to work, the war would only go away for a
> little while because, ultimately, there was no escaping the war - a
> statement about the war itself. 2) That the media made us entertained
> by it, and we loved it, and 3) To show Americans watching the war and
> being entertained while practicing vices: eating, drinking and
> gambling. I go from first, to second, to third person, in all
> honestly, because I couldn't write Jen's character. I tried to get her
> voice for years, and I simply could not write a woman. I have no idea
> what the hell they're thinking in reality. How the hell am I supposed
> to write a woman? After re-reading Lorrie Moore's Self-Help a couple
> years ago, I decided I would never understand women, and since I loved
> her second person stories, I came up with writing it in that way to go
> along with the three ways to look at the war.
>
> The second thing I'm trying to do is point out that there are no
> winners in war. No one in the story succeeds. They're all losers. The
> fat kid loses the bet and can't get the girl. The arrogant, asshole
> Republican wins the stupid bet, but he loses the girl. So, even when
> you win, you can still lose (you can be called the winner of a war,
> but you're still gonna lose something: lives, innocence, and for the
> Republicans like Sam, they lose control of the government partly
> because of the war). The second guy loses his bet over the basketball
> game, he loses because Jen annoys the shit out of him, and he has to
> move from his seat (Since we live in America, we have the option of
> ignorance, but one of the prices for that is being annoyed by the
> jackass conservatives and liberals who can't get along). Jen loses
> because she lets politics and this war get in the way of her personal
> life. She is an example of how much people at that age have on their
> plate, and you should root for her, but she's a stupid 22 year old
> girl, who judges people based on their opinion of the war. She is a
> hypocrite. I believe liberals have been hypocrites to a certain
> extent. Many liberals I have known act just like Jen. And during the
> war, they were so against the war that they made it their mission to
> convince everyone they met to be against the war. They just had to
> stop the war. They want peace and love and freedom, but they can't
> stand it when someone disagrees with them. Sam is a hypocrite too. He
> loves the war but is a rich frat boy who would be shipped to Canada
> before enlisting.
>
> The third thing I wanted to do is show that people representing all
> sides: pro war, impartial, anti-war - made good points and bad points,
> which adds to the point that no one wins. I didn't want to come out
> and have a "no one wins" line because I wanted it to be subtle. ...
> Too subtle? All it would probably take is a one-liner in that kitchen
> at the end with you can't win line or something like that, maybe.
>
> By having no symathetic characters (fat ass, rich prick, asshole
> gambler, crazy hypercrite liberal chick) they all become sympathetic
> in my eyes because they're stupid college kids who have vices, and are
> completely confused about a war that they are nowhere near and has
> effected all of them in some way. ... My ultimate goal was this: that
> if a Republican who was pro war read this, he would relate to Sam and
> laugh at the others for being stupid. If someone who didn't give a
> shit read it, he would relate to the second guy and laugh at the
> others for being stupid. Same with Jen. Fat kid? Who gives a fuck?
> He's just another fat ass in a country of fat asses. He'd get the girl
> if he wasn't such a fat ass.
>
> I actually like the way you saw the story. I feel that since you got
> part of what I was thinking that I must be getting close. So, what do
> you think now? ... Thanks for helping me with this story.


------


avin, it's your story and I'm just one reader.  I'm not sure really
where to go with it, but the thing that most affects me about the story
is that these kids have no real stake in the war.  It doesn't touch
them, even if some of them think it does.  It's just a story on TV.
None of them even knows anyone fighting.  They're all middle class and,
obviously, spoiled, even if one of them has to serve drinks in a bar.

I don't know--try interspersing the segments with segments of soldiers
fighting in Iraq.  Try something like the first 20 minutes of Saving
Private Ryan.  If I were a soldier even if I knew it was a stupid war
I'd sure hate to think I was fighting for people like these folks.  For
some reason Charlie Sheen comes to mind.  Imagine the character in Two
and a Half Men at age 21 or 22--what a little prick, even if he would be
pretty funny.  What would the Charlie Sheen of Platoon think of a
jackass like that?  (Try not to think of Hot Shots.)

I know a guy who's a sniper.  Sometimes he has to shoot children.  He's
a very quiet guy and his wife hated the war and hated Bush.  The husband
just does what his country asks of him--he has no choice, really, since
he wasn't really college material but could really shoot a gun, like a
lot of guys in Western PA.

But these kids are in a bubble and they enjoy remaining children, thanks
to the privilege that being middle class brings.  It makes me wish
they'd bring back the draft, even if another war were never fought,
however paradoxical that would be.  Of course, if the economy keeps
tanking, problem solved anyway for people like this.  And UPJ can always
use their tuition dollars, assuming there's still a UPJ in five years' time.

Good luck with it.
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Yeungs and Wings (Final version – 2009)

By Gavin | August 3, 2009

Sam

            Everest needed water.  Fat bastard was trying to eat 50 atomic wings in an hour, and the jackass’ drink of choice was Yeungling.  It was doing more harm than good.  It took up a ton of stomach space and was failing to extinguish the fire that was raging in Everest’s throat.  Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, and his eyes reminded me of the night I found him curled up on a couch watching “Titanic” on TNT.  With each gulp of beer, he ate slower and slower.  Being the man who bet Everest that he couldn’t eat 50 wings in an hour, I wasn’t about to run and get him a glass of water just yet. 

A case of beer was on the line for Christ’s sake.  

Everest’s real name was Mike.  The man was mountainous – 6-foot-2, 315-pounds.  Everyone in our frat called him Mount Everest, Everest for short.   Mike was my boy, funniest motherfucker ever, loved him to death.  That’s why I suggested he go and get a glass of water from the bar. 

Our waitress certainly wasn’t going to stop by and check on us anytime soon.  Liberal bitch was my girlfriend at the time, and she was pissed off because I said Shock and Awe was awesome.

“I don’t need any fucking water,” Everest said, a wad of meat pushed to the side of his fat mouth.  “Try an’ get into my head all you want.  It ain’t gonna work.”

He dropped a wing onto a pile that was in one basket and picked up another out of a second basket.  There was a third basket he hadn’t even touched yet.

“Time?” he said.

“What the fuck dude?” I said.  I picked up the wing he had just thrown away and inspected it.  “Look at all the shit you left.”

“That’s fucking gristle.”

I pointed to a patch of meat on the end of the bone.

“This isn’t fucking gristle,” I said.  “Listen dude, you gotta eat everything on the bone just like John Candy had to with the steak in “The Great Outdoors.””

“Fine asshole,” he said, and tore the wing out of my hand.

He picked the wing clean and tossed it back on the pile of bones.  Then he washed it down with beer.

“Time?” he said.

“Thirty-five minutes remaining,” I said, looking at my watch.  “And you got 32 wings to go.”

“I need more beer,” he said, and bit into a wing.

“Seriously dude, go get some water.  You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I don’t give a shit what I drink.  Just get me something.”

“I ain’t getting you a drink.  That’d be helping.”

“You’re the reason she’s ignoring us.”

I was about to get up when this waitress named Kayla walked past.  I stopped her and asked for a pitcher of water. 

“I’ll be sure to inform your server,” she said. 

Cunt smirked and flung her hair off her shoulder as she walked away.  She and the girlfriend were friends. 

“You’re the fucking idiot,” Everest said.  “Why the fuck would you say Shock and Awe was awesome?”

            “Because it was, motherfucker,” I said.  “Listen, I’m not gonna apologize for my opinions.  I’m for this war.  Saddam wanted to jerk us off, and now he’s paying the fucking price.  Bush’s dad should’ve done this shit back in the day.  Now we don’t have a choice.  What are we gonna do?  Wait till his evil-ass sons take over and start firing bombs everywhere?  We have to step up and say what countries are and aren’t allowed to have WMDs.  And, in the process, we’re going to free Iraq, and turn it into a—”

            “Shock and Awe killed a lot of people,” Everest said, tossing a wing onto the pile of bones.  He picked up another.  “Shock and Awe killed a lot of innocent women and children, and you said it was awesome to watch on TV to your girlfriend, who you know is a die-hard liberal.”

            He looked away, shaking his head, and tore into the wing.

            “You don’t know innocent women and children died,” I said. 

            He rolled his head forward.  “Have you even thought about why Jen is against the war with all her heart?”

“Yeah, she’s a dumbass liberal who lives in a fantasy world, and it’s not like we didn’t fucking warn them Shock and Awe was coming.  Anyone who was still there wasn’t innocent.  Besides, dude, look around you.”

            Half of the bar’s TVs were showing war coverage.  I pointed to a TV that was on the wall behind him.  Fox News was showing an aerial clip of tanks cruising down a desert road.

            “There’s a reason they have the war on here,” I said.  “And, it’s not just because people are supporting the troops.  People are fucking glued to the TV for this shit.  Most of these motherfuckers are watching the war over the tournament.  I bet I’m not the only man in here who thought Shock and Awe was badass.  That was a display of our tax dollars at work.  It showed the world a glimpse – just a glimpse – of what we can fucking do.  If Iran and North Korea and Syria know what’s best of them, they’ll fucking fall in line.  We’ve invaded a country in the Middle East, and we’re gonna have it completely taken over within—”

            “Whatever, dude, drop it,” Everest said.  “You’re worse than my fucking dad.”

            His fingers were dripping with hot sauce.  The napkins were useless.  They lay in a ball at the corner of the table, soaked red.  Everest licked his fingers clean.

            “Seriously, go get me something to drink,” he said.  “I’m dying.”

            “Fine,” I said, and stood up. “No fucking cheating while I’m gone.”  He didn’t reply.  “God, I can’t believe this shit.  Where the fuck is that bitch, anyway?” 

            “End of the bar,” Everest said, “talking to that dude in the blue sweater turtleneck.”

 

Jason

            You lean against the end of the bar with a $20 bill in your hand.  It’s Yeungs and wings night, and every just-turned-21 douche bag is practically climbing over the bar, trying to get served.  There are two full-fledged mosh pits, one across from the drafts and the other across from the cash register.  You light a cigarette and let the 20 chill in your elevated hand.  There’s only one bartender, but all the waitresses are taking turns pouring beer.  You’re 22, a senior, and completely sick of college.

Be patient, you tell yourself, someone will get to you.

You look around the bar at all the TVs.  The goddamn war is on every other screen at the only sports bar in this miserable little college town.  Your roommate should’ve been the one who went out.  You wanted to watch Kentucky play Marquette in the Elite 8 in the privacy of your own apartment, but your gay wannabe activist of a roommate and his hippie girlfriend had first dibs on the TV.  They were watching CNN while making anti-war protest signs.  

Hey man, he says as you’re about to leave, call us gay all you want, but this war is more important than a basketball game.  It’s gonna fucking change our generation.

You have money on Kentucky, and he sells over-priced bags of weed to freshmen.  It’s not hard to close the door without saying goodbye.

You know the blonde waitress behind the bar.  She’s in your economics class.  She used to flirt with you sophomore year in college algebra, but there was always some dude waiting for her after class, so you never bothered to do anything but flirt back.  Her name is Jen.  Your eyes follow her.  After about a minute, she notices you and gives you a head nod.  You’re next.  She walks past a herd of dickheads with popped collars who are waving dollar bills at her and comes over to you.  She crosses her arms and rests her tits on the bar.  You can’t see, but you know she’s on her tiptoes. 

            Hey love, she says, what can I get’ch ya?

Four Yeunglings and a shot of Jack, you tell her. 

She smiles and takes the 20 out of your hand – slowly.  Your eyes are locked for a moment, and then she turns and walks away.  Instinctively, you stare at her ass as she goes, and you know she knows you’re watching.  That’s what makes it fun, but that’s all it is – fun.  It’s a waitress’s job to flirt.  Why can’t a girl like her ever be single, you ask yourself as she pours your drinks.  And there’s always at least one other guy chilling in the wings, waiting.  It’s not worth the effort. 

The Yeungling is poured into tiny plastic cups, and you intend to drink all four.  But then, right as Jen returns with the drinks and your change, the three dickheads you came with appear.  You don’t have a choice.  You give them each a beer and order three more.  By the time Jen comes back with your drinks, the first beer is finished, the shot history, and the game has started.

Somehow, people aren’t killing each other anymore for Jen’s attention, and she decides to stand and talk to you.  She asks what you thought of Shock and Awe.  The game is fucking on, and you despise talking about the Goddamn war.  It’s pointless, you tell people.  It was going to happen regardless of what anyone thought, so who gives a fuck?    

Without taking your eyes off the game, you say, it didn’t shock me, and it didn’t awe me.  You pause a moment, and then add, I guess it’s what I expected, but I don’t really think about that kind of shit.

That should do it, you say to yourself, she’ll get the hint and leave you alone.  But, you’re wrong.  Jen starts rambling about the ramifications of the war and the dangerous precedence it is setting.  This puts you on the verge of telling her to get the fuck away from you.  The success of your bracket hinges on a Kentucky victory over Marquette.  You’re in first place in your buddy’s poll, but you have Kentucky winning the whole thing, and the douche bag in second place has Marquette in the Final Four.  All you want to do is drink and concentrate on the game, which doesn’t seem to be going your way.  Some asshole on Marquette named Dwyane Wade, who you didn’t know existed until a month ago, makes an acrobatic lay-up over two Kentucky defenders.  The replay makes you sick to your stomach because you were so confident in Kentucky 24 hours earlier that you bet another buddy 80 bucks on the Wildcats.

Jen is offended that you don’t give a shit about the war.  She seems hell bent on convincing you to not only care, but also to adopt her political stance.  What about the cost of this thing, she asks you, economically and socially.  You vaguely remember hearing this spiel in economics class.  Jen ranted and raved to the class, while you were half asleep in the back of the room.  Enough’s enough, you finally tell yourself, and then remind Jen that it’s your right not to care.  

We live in a republic, you say, and the beauty of living in a republic is voting for people to give a shit about these kinds of problems, while you sit back, relax and watch college basketball.

Right as Jen’s about to reply, some townie in an orange sweatshirt steals her attention, and she walks away.  You let out a sigh of relief and take a long drink.  You earned it.  For a while there, you didn’t know what was more annoying, Jen’s war banter or Dwyane Wade’s ability to score at will.  You finish the cup and grab another.

Your boys are off hitting on girls they can’t get.  You’re standing at the bar alone, and you could care less if it looks pathetic.  You’re into the game.  You’re heart’s pumping.  You’re stomach is in knots.  Dwyane Wade pulls up for a mid-range jumper.  He releases, a man in his face, and right as the ball is about to hit the rim, the channel is changed to a hockey game.

Your head snaps to the right, and you see Jen, remote control in hand.  Rage surging through your bones, you demand she turn the Kentucky game back on.

 It’s not like your game isn’t on any of the other TVs in the bar, she says.  You look around.  Thanks to the war being on half the screens, you’d have to move to the other side of the bar to watch the game, and you don’t see any available seats. 

Some fucking sports bar, you say.  This is a joke, right?  You only changed the channel because I don’t give a shit about the war.

Some rich douche bag in kakis and a Delta Chi golf shirt leans across the bar and steals her attention.  You don’t even wait.  You know you can’t win standing there, so you grab your drinks, walk across the bar, and lean against a wall.  You stand there and get tortured by Dwyane Wade the rest of the night.

 

Jen

            The basement was cold and dark.  Jen held onto the railing as she slowly walked down the steps.  She wanted to be quiet incase her grandfather was asleep.  He always took naps in front of the TV, but he was awake and watching a press conference on CNN.  Jen recognized Norman Schwarzkopf as she took it one step at a time.  Her grandfather began flipping through the channels once he realized who was coming to see him.  Jen saw this, and hurried onto the couch.  He was across from her in his recliner.  He asked her what was new in the fifth grade, and she told him they were being taught the countries and capitals of the Middle East.

            “I think it’s very important that you know that.”

            “We’re learning it because of the war.  Mommy says you were in World War II, and I shouldn’t ask about it because you don’t like talking about it.”

            He rubbed his forehead, a thumb pressed to his temple.  “Your mother’s right.  I was in the war, and it’s not something I like to talk about, especially with pretty little girls like you.”

            His voice was raspy, yet soft.  The TV screen was the only lighting in the room.

            “Thank you, grandpa.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, pumpkin.”

            Dangling her feet from the couch, Jen thought a moment, and then said, “My teacher says there are a lot of women fighting in this war, a lot more than in the last, and that if my friends and I wanted to, we could join the army some day.”

            He nodded his head and thought a moment.  “Yup, your teacher’s right.  There are a lot of women fighting compared to when we were in Vietnam, and you could join the army when you grow up.  But, you don’t want to do that, pumpkin.  You have to go to college and get a degree.  A war isn’t any place for a woman.”  He leaned forward, pushing the foot rest into the chair with his legs, and said, “It’s no place for a man, either.  They just shouldn’t happen.  They’re horrible, pumpkin, and any time I talk about it I’m forced to relive it, so let’s change the subject to something more pleasant.”

            Her grandfather died when she was 16, and after his funeral, family members were allowed to read his journal from the war.  Jen was shocked by what he had gone through.  She told her boyfriend about her grandfather once when they started dating in the fall of 2002, but he was drunk at the time and didn’t remember the conversation the next day.  Watching America invade Iraq made Jen think of her grandfather, and it hurt.  And, like her grandfather, she didn’t like to speak about the pain.  The only person she confided in was Everest.  She got drunk and poured her guts to him the night Bush declared war, while Sam and his other friends crowded around a TV on the edge of their seats, beers in their hands.

            Living her life as if nothing was happening was the hardest part.  She wanted to hop in her car, drive to Washington, and scream in front of the White House until her throat was raw.  But, that degree was just a few months away, and she had to work to pay for that car.  There was no escaping the war, though.  Every class turned into a debate, and she just had to give her opinion, but she never mentioned her grandfather.  While waiting on tables, she had to fight the urge to argue with customers.

            “I don’t care what anyone says, I think Saddam was behind nine-eleven,” Jen overheard a man say that night. 

            Wiping off a table, Jen overheard another man say, “This is going to be a cakewalk.  We’ll win in less than a month, and the Iraqis are gonna greet us as liberators just like Cheney said.”

            At times, Jen wanted to run out of the bar.  Everywhere she turned, there was the war: video of explosions on TV, men covered in blood being carried on stretchers, a Marine firing a hand-held missile at Iraqi forces. 

            With all that was on her mind – work, war, school, life after graduation – she didn’t have time for an arrogant prick like Sam.  He refused to be ignored, though, sitting in her section with Everest.  For the sake of getting through her shift, she accepted his apology and stood next to him as time expired and he won the bet with Everest.  He looked so pathetic, pumping his fist in the glow of the big screen.

            She was a zombie the rest of the night and wasn’t able to snap out of it until the bar closed and she was doing her side work. 

            “You gonna dump him?” Kayla asked.

            They were refilling salt and peppers shakers in the kitchen.

            “Yeah, and it’s long overdue, too,” Jen said. 

            “What about that cute guy in the blue sweater turtleneck you were talking to?”

            “Another waste of time.  I’ve been flirting with him for two years, and tonight he got pissed because I changed the channel on a TV.”  Both girls shook their heads.  “I just can’t win.  There’s no winning at anything.  And that guy doesn’t even give a shit about the war.  At least Sam follows it and is for it.  That guy – I just don’t get it.”  She sighed.  “Where the hell are all the thoughtful, caring liberal guys?”

            One of the cooks, a guy named Derrick, was eavesdropping.  He walked over to Jen and put his arm around her.

            “Yo, I’m a liberal,” he said.  “I fucking hate this war and shit.”

            It was typical Derrick, and the girls laughed.  Jen enjoyed laughing. 

            “Everest would be perfect if I was attracted to him, but, whatever, it doesn’t even matter because I don’t have time for a boyfriend anyway,” Jen said.

            “Everest?” Derrick said.  “You mean that fat fuck who tried eating all them wings?”  He kicked a nearby garbage can that was filled to the top with wing bones.  “This is like all from him and shit.”

            Kayla laughed, and Jen smirked.  The manager walked past, writing something on a clipboard.  “Whose job is it to empty that tonight?” he said.

            “Mine,” Jen said.

            “Yo, I’ll help you,” Derrick said.

            They both grabbed a handle on the garbage can and walked towards the backdoor.

            “A bunch of us are heading back to my place to burn one, you down?”

            “I don’t know,” Jen said.  “I have to write a paper.”

            “Is it due tomorrow?”

            “No.”

            “Then come have some fun.”

            Jen thought about it for a little while, and after Kayla said she was going, she decided to go, too.  It felt good to get fucked up and not think about everything.

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Yeungs and Wings (2007)

By Gavin | August 3, 2009

The bet

Seriously dude, I can fuck any bitch I want.  Take this little slut Stacey.  I pulled her at the Bulldog without saying a fucking word.  She saw me walk outside with this dirty wigger who everyone knew was straight with the white, and when I came back in, she totally eye-fucked me.  That ugly wigger had said something in the parking lot about her sucking his dick for blow, so I tapped my nose and gave her a headnod towards the bathroom.  Two minutes later, that slut’s knees were on the men’s room floor, and her lips were wrapped around my cock. 

It was so weird.  That dirty wigger came in while we were snorting lines off the sink.  He said hi to the slut, but she totally ignored him and turned to me and went, “Let’s go into the stall for some privacy.”

Then she sucked my dick like a champ.  It was so funny.  The floor was covered in piss, but that slut didn’t give a fuck.  When she got done swallowing my shit, she stood up, looked at the wet stains on her knees, and giggled like a fifth grader.

She was like, “Everyone’s totally gonna know.”

I pulled up my jeans and went, “No one’ll care.”

And then she was all, “What’s your name again?”

I laughed in her face and told her my name was Kyle when it’s really Sam.  What the fuck, I didn’t plan on ever talking to her again.  Besides, my fucking girlfriend Jen was a waitress at that place.  I know, I know – crazy right?  Whatever – I’d never been caught, and I had nothing but confidence.  Plus, I was horny as hell, and Jen always was too tired to bang after working on Yeungs and wings night.  I can get any fucking bitch I want.  So what if I lost her, right?

I was there with my roommate Wang.  I’d bet him 20 bucks that he couldn’t eat 50 wings in an hour.  Wang was fucking struggling.  His hands were covered in so much hot sauce that he could barely grip his beer.  He looked like a Chinese vampire who had just struck another innocent victim.  He was no Kobayashi, I’ll tell you that.  The retard wiped his hands with a new napkin after each wing, wasting a ton of fucking time and leaving a thousand hot-sauce-stained napkins all over of the table.  Then he had the nerve to fucking cheat, like I’d forgotten that he promised to take everything off the bone.

He was all, “It’s gristle.”

And then I went, “You gotta eat everything on the bone just like John Candy had to with the steak in The Great Outdoors.”

Wang mumbled some shit under his breath, but he said it while licking his fingers, so I just laughed.  That was when we were 15 minutes into the bet, and he was only on his eighth wing.  I was so confident that I took a break from watching him to buy some blow and get head in the men’s room. 

But after that, shit got scary.  I wasn’t back at the table long enough to tell Wang about getting head before that stupid coke slut came over to talk about the war for some reason. 

I wanted to be like, “Bitch, thanks for licking my balls.  Now get the fuck away from me.” 

            I didn’t because two seconds after the coke slut sat down Jen was standing next to the table with the last of the 50 wings on her tray.  Now, I was fucking rolling hard.  So, you know my heart was pounding – boom, boom, boom.  I thought it was going to jump out of my chest.

I just told myself to play it cool, and then I went, “Jen, this is Stacey; Stacey, this is my girlfriend Jen.”

Keep in mind, if I hadn’t done that, not only would Jen have been mad as hell that I was talking to some bitch, but she also would have been pissed that I hadn’t introduced her to the slut.  This way, the only thing I had to worry about was how the slut would react. 

I give the slut’s reaction a D-fucking-minus.  She didn’t come right out and say she’d just blown me in the men’s room.  But, she did scrunch her eyebrows up something fierce and look back and forth between Jen and me.  Her hand was latched onto Jen’s. 

She was all, “Kyle, you didn’t mention a girlfriend.”

Her voice was muffled by the sound of my thumping heart.

Jen pulled her hand away and was like, “His name’s Sam.”

I instinctively kicked Wang in the shin under the table, and he immediately stole Jen’s attention with a question about their advanced calculus homework.  With Jen occupied, I slapped the rest of the coke into the slut’s hand and gave her a wink.

I went, “They won’t find any weapons of mass destruction because Saddam secretly moved it all to Syria.”

And she was all, “There are no weapons of mass destruction.  We’re only over there for the oil.”

Like that we were cool.  But for some ungodly reason, instead of crawling back under the rock from where she came, that whore sat there and rambled on and on about the war.  I stared at Jen’s long, blond hair and perfectly round ass, while nodding my head, pretending to agree with that whore’s liberal bullshit.  If I’d told her what I really thought – that weapons of mass destruction or not, I was thrilled we were finally getting rid of crazy-ass Saddam and his rape rooms, and that I wanted a democracy in the Middle East for our sake – she would’ve argued with me the rest of the night because that’s what crazy liberals did at the start of the war. 

God, I swear all the hippies on campus thought it was their job to get people like me to think the way they did.  Jen was the worst.  She’d drag me into these arguments when we should’ve been fucking.  War debates with her lasted forever, and they always ended with us yelling and not fucking.  Because of Jen, I backed down from every war debate I stumbled into.

I glanced over at one of the three big screens.  It had on Fox News.  I loved that station.  They showed a clip of bombs falling on Baghdad at night.  I knew people were dying and shit, but I thought it looked so cool.  It was just like the movies.  That’s a horrible thing to say, but that’s what if seemed like. 

All these dudes at the bar who were watching the game started shouting.  I looked at the TV that was on right above Jen and saw a replay of some crazy dunk.  Then I checked out Jen.  She wasn’t stupid – she took advanced calculus for God’s sake – and she was pissed.  She had her arms crossed and her back to me.  I knew sooner or later I was going to have to come up with the greatest lie of all time to explain why that slut thought my name was Kyle.   

Jen took off for the bar without saying shit to me, and the second she was gone, I turned to that little coke slut and was like, “You got what you wanted.  Now get the fuck outta here.”

I sniffed and rubbed my nose.  It seemed like I was doing that a lot.

She gave me this smirk and was all, “Before I go, I just wanna know two things.  One, she’s gorgeous, why would you cheat?  And two, why is your friend here eating so many fucking wings?” 

Wang pulled a wing out of his mouth and went, “He bet me I couldn’t eat 50 in an hour, and he cheated on her because, like you, he’s a stupid fucking slut.”

She got this big grin on her face and was like, “How many have you eaten?”

Wang went, “Twenty and I got a half hour left.”

Then that whore had to go and be all, “You’d go a lot faster if you didn’t lick your fingers and wipe your mouth after each wing.” 

I was like, “Get the fuck outta here you stupid slut.”

She flipped me off and walked away.  Stupid fucking coke whore almost ruined the bet for me.  Wang was all, “Holy shit, I didn’t even realize I was doing that.”

Luckily, that whore told Wang about 30 seconds too late.  When time ran out, he had one fucking wing left.  It was a hell of a comeback.  Wang had a hot sauce sprinkler thing going on, spinning each wing in front of his mouth like they were corn on the cob.  Shit was there a ton of hot sauce in those baskets.  Wang sprayed it all over the place.  There were red puddles all over the table and gobs of sauce all over his shirt.  It was like he had been shot or something.

Me not being such a gristle Nazi may have helped his cause.  The only reason I lightened up, though, was because I was watching Jen wait on tables.  I was afraid she was going to say something to the coke whore, ask her to confirm her suspicions and shit.  She never talked to her, but she did have a little chat with that dirty wigger coke dealer, which was not cool.  If I’d had time to dwell on them talking right then, I probably would have gotten extremely pissed.  But I had to watch Wang and keep track of time.  I had to win that bet so I could make Kobayashi jokes whenever I wanted. 

After he lost, Wang bolted for the men’s room, and that’s when Jen decided to demand an explanation for the slut.

She stormed over to the table and went, “Please enlighten me as to why that Stacey girl said, ‘Kyle, you didn’t mention a girlfriend.’”

Without hesitating, I was like, “It’s not what it seems.  That bitch came over here and started hitting on me.  Shit, I know I should’ve told her to get lost, but I wanted to fuck with her head, so I said my name was Kyle, and then I started saying shit like, ‘I wanna fuck Jessica Lynch once all her wounds heal.’  And that was a huge fucking mistake.  She went nuts about the war, and it took me forever to get rid of her.”

Jen smiled and went, “Seriously?”

I smiled, nodded my head and was like, “Seriously.  Now, we cool?”

I sniffed and rubbed my nose.  I could feel sweat on the back of my neck.

She shook her head and was like, “Um, no, we’re definitely not cool.”

Then I went, “Baby, you don’t believe me?”

She was all, “Do not call me baby and no, I don’t believe you.  I can see it in your eyes – just like I can see it in Bush’s eyes when he talks about the war – you’re lying your ass off.”

She had nothing unless that wigger had said something, and he wasn’t that stupid.  I went, “Why don’t you believe me?”

And then she went, “Because of what I’ve seen and what I’ve heard.”

I was getting pretty fucking pissed.  I was like, “I explained what you think you saw, so what have you heard?”

I sniffed again, and I was getting annoyed that I kept doing it.

Jen got this look on her face, and she was like, “You’re such a spoiled, rich, frat boy – why don’t you go buy more coke off seedy drug dealers in leather jackets.”

Fuck that bitch.  I was like, “If that’s how you feel, then you can get your cock somewhere else, you cunt.”

It was awesome.  Her eyeballs popped out of her head, and then she was all, “‘Cunt?’  Oh my God, I don’t know what I ever saw in you, you cokehead.”

I laughed as she walked away.  She was such a stupid bitch.  I was fucking bitches on the side the whole time.  I didn’t need her.  Still, it pisses you off to have another dude shit on your game.  That dirty wigger was a dead motherfucker.

Blue sweater turtleneck

            I didn’t give a shit about the war then, and I don’t give a shit about the war now.  It’s easy not to care now.  But, in March of 2003, it was almost as if I had no choice.  The war was everywhere: the classroom, 3 Doors Down songs, and the bumper of every Ford F-150 on campus.  TV – forget about it; the war was on every other channel 24-hours a day.  It was so fucking annoying.  Thank God for basketball.  March Madness became my blinders.  But, when the tournament got to the Sweet 16, and I threw 300 bucks down on Kentucky, some asshole on Marquette named Dwyane Wade and the battle over the city of Najaf fucked up my shit big time. 

I went to the Bulldog Bar and Grill on Yeungs and wings night to watch the game.  All I wanted to do was sit there, drink cheap beer, check out hot girls, and watch basketball.  But no, every other TV had to be the fucking war.  The Bulldog had three big screens in a row and only the one in the middle had on the Kentucky-Marquette game.  CNN was on the TV to the left, a clip of a wounded Iraqi boy being carried on a stretcher played once every five minutes.  Fox News was on the TV to the right, the clips of Jessica Lynch’s rescue played twice every five minutes.

I sat at the bar, pounding dollar Yeungling drafts and chain-smoking Marlboro Lights.  My eyes were glued to one of the smaller TVs, but it was so hard to concentrate on the game with the shadows of death and destruction bouncing off the walls.  Not that I was enjoying the game anyway – fucking Dwyane Wade.

 The bar was killing my usually sunny disposition.  It was dark as hell, and the TV screens shined light onto this thin cloud of cigarette smoke that hung over us all.  I had on my blue sweater turtleneck, and this fat bitch I didn’t feel like talking to complimented it.

            “You should wear that sweater every day,” she said.

            I was a good 12 beers away from where I needed to be to fuck her, so I blew her off the second Ethan got back from the bathroom.  He was pissed off, too.  About what, I didn’t know.  I wasn’t paying attention; I had my own problems.  Dwyane Wade nailed a three to put Marquette up by 15.

            “Mark, are you fucking listening?” Ethan said.

            “No, I’m trying to watch the game, but between you, that fat bitch behind you, and the war, I’m having a Goddamn hard time.”

            Ethan lit a cigarette and repeated everything he’d said like I suddenly cared.

            “Stacey’s blowing that douche bag I just sold to in the bathroom.  It’s just not fair.  I’m the one selling the shit.  She should be giving me—”

            I punched him on the arm.

“Keep your fucking voice down.”  I looked around to see if anyone was looking at us funny.  We were cool.  “Man, fuck that little whore.  She’s a one-eyed puppy: cute to look at, fun to play with, but horrible to keep as a pet.”

            “I know.  I just wanna fuck that bitch so bad, though.”

            Ethan was so pathetic.  He got into selling coke for the girls, but he hadn’t even been given a hand job since he started dealing.  When you’re ugly, you’re ugly, I guess.  Naturally, he lied and told anyone who’d listen that the white stuff got him tons of ass.  Of course, me being his roommate, I was forced to hear him cry about how girl after girl used him for coke and then rejected his advances.  I couldn’t figure out if girls shut him down because of his West Virginia under bite, or his sketchy-coke-dealer uniform, which consisted of black FUBU jeans, white sneakers, a XXL white T-shirt, and a long black leather jacket.  He even grew a cheesy goatee and quit cutting his fingernails. 

He was in pretty deep.

            Stacey emerged from the men’s room, looking around to see if anyone noticed.  We stared, but didn’t get caught.

            “Look,” Ethan said, pointing.  “Her knees are wet from the piss that’s all over the floor in there.  Mark, I’m telling ya, that should’ve been me, not him.”

            “Man, that whore’s not even hot,” I said.  “She’s got mosquito bites for tits, a badonkadonk that’d look good if she wasn’t so short, thick thighs, and check out those calves – dude, they’re borderline cankles.” 

            “Whatever, I heard she was a freak.”

            I gave up and quit talking to the son of a bitch.  Five minutes of utter bliss went by, and then this waitress I knew changed the TV I was watching to a hockey game.  Sure, there were like eight other TVs with the Kentucky-Marquette game on, but that one was right in front of me on the wall, and I didn’t want to twist my body to look at another screen.  I could’ve moved, I guess, but I had the perfect seat at the ass-end of the bar.  So, I got real pissed.

            “What the fuck?” I said to the waitress. 

Her name was Jen, and we had economics together.  She was that opinionated liberal girl who somehow turned every class into a war debate.  There were days I wanted to throw it in her mouth just so she’d shut the fuck up.  Jen was convinced I was secretly against the war, too, which was so annoying.  She concluded this because of the way I “vehemently didn’t care about the war.” 

Listen, Jen was really hot and usually cool to talk to, but when she said shit like that, my God she was the worst.

            “This guy here asked to watch the hockey game.  Sorry,” Jen said.

            “Why don’t you change one of the TVs that have CNN on?” I said.

            “That’s what I told her,” the guy who made her change the channel said.  There was hot wing sauce all over his cheesy, redneck mustache.  His camouflage sweatshirt made the stereotype complete.

            “I can’t,” Jen said.  “The manager said to have the war on.”

            “Why?” I said.  “This is a sports bar, not a war bar.  Jesus Christ, I got a lot of fucking money on this game, and all these pictures of tanks and soldiers and bombs are killing me.”

“Hey man,” Ethan said, “we gotta support the troops.”

I could’ve fucking hit him.  

Jen held her hand out towards Ethan, nodding her head.  “That’s what my boss said.  Listen, Mark, I’m against the war, too—”

“OK, conversation’s over,” I said.  “You know damn well I don’t give a rat’s ass about this shit.  I just want it to go away.  It’s ruining the fucking tournament.”

“The troops over there’d want us watching sports,” cheesy mustache guy said.  “I fought in ’91.  Trust me; they want us drinking beer, eating wings, and watching sports like we normally do.”

“Exactly,” I said.  “Fuck the war!  Let’s watch basketball and get fucked up.”

“You need another?” Jen said to me.

I said sure, and while she poured me another Yeungling, I looked at the TV that was directly above me to the left.  Dwyane Wade stole the ball and took it coast to coast for a dunk, putting Marquette up 16.  Disgusted with Kentucky’s ball control and agitated from the angle I had to twist my neck to see the game, I checked on the war.  It looked like we had it pretty much wrapped up.  A convoy of U.S. tanks raced across the desert, kicking up a trail of sand behind them.  Then it cut to a marine firing a shoulder-held rocket launcher at some building with a round dome.  Jen stepped into my line of sight before I could see the explosion.

“I don’t care what you say,” she said, sliding the beer across the bar, “you’re not having a worse night than everyone in Iraq right now.”

The thought of transferring schools just so I never had to talk to Jen again crossed my mind.  I mean, seriously, I’m an American.  I vote for people to represent me so my tax dollars can help them fix problems I don’t want to worry about.  I worry about my own shit.  Why didn’t Jen understand that? 

Then the thought of never seeing her ass-crack when she leans forward to read the dry-erase board in class entered my mind and stayed.  I bit my tongue, cocked my head, and rolled my eyes as I looked away, a facial expression I perfected on my mother in junior high.  I call it the “I don’t want to be fucking listening to you” look.

“And,” Jen said, the look obviously working, “you’re not having a worse night than me.”

I glanced at the TV above me.  The basketball game cut to a commercial.  “You got two minutes to tell me about it.”

“OK, well, I’ve been waiting hand and foot on my boyfriend Sam over there,” she said, pointing to the guy who Ethan had sold blow to. 

She suddenly had my full attention, along with Ethan’s.

If that wasn’t weird enough, the little slut who’d just sucked his dick was sitting at the table, too.  But what made me raise an eyebrow was the Chinese dude next to her who was tearing apart a basket of 20-cent wings like there was no tomorrow. 

“Sam bet his roommate Wang 20 bucks that he couldn’t eat 50 wings in an hour,” Jen said.  We nodded our heads, and she continued.  “The order backed up the kitchen, and the chef totally hates me right now.  And is Sam thankful?  No, he’s too busy talking with that girl, who, while shaking my hand, turned to him and said, ‘Kyle, you didn’t mention a girlfriend.’”

“Oh yeah,” Ethan said. “Well, I got some news for ya—”

I kicked Ethan’s ankle under the bar, and he blurted out, “motherfucker.”

“He’s right,” I said.  “Any guy who isn’t thankful to have a girl like you is a dumb motherfucker.”

What I had done was blatantly obvious.  But she seemed to buy my cover up.

“Thanks.  Thank you,” Jen said to both of us.  And then turning to me she said, “You know, you look really good in that sweater.”  Before I could say thanks, some dick-weed in a John Deer hat yelled for service.  “I gotta go,” she said, and walked away.

“Why’d you fucking kick me?” Ethan said once Jen was gone.

“Because one,” I said, “telling on that douche bag is gonna cause a whole bunch of drama that’ll come back to both of us, and two, you don’t rat out guys. That dude’s just trying to get off, and not only is he more successful than you, but he’s also pulling the whore you wanna bang.  So you wanna go and fuck up his shit?  That’s so gay.”

“I can’t believe you don’t want me to tell this chick.  She’s on your nuts with that stupid sweater shit.”

“Fuck that.  Bitches are a dime a dozen, and if that stupid bitch is dumb enough to date a guy like that then fuck her.  She deserves everything she gets.”

“I’m fucking telling her.”

“Fine, tell her you little faggot.”  I looked at the TV above me just in time to see the last shot of the first half.  “If you’re telling her, you’d better do it quick because I’m going home to watch the second half.”

“What?  C’mon, let’s stay.  It’s Yeungs and wings night.”

“Fuck that.  I’m driving home to watch the second half in peace.”

“Fine; leave.  I’ll get a ride home from someone else.  I’m fucking staying.  And, I’m gonna tell that waitress what’s up.”

“Go ahead, pussy.  You’re such a faggot.”

I pounded my beer and paid my tab.  I tipped big because I did kind of like Jen.  So what if she was always trying to get me to go to some anti-war rally.  She was so hot – thin legs, tight ass, big tits – and deserved so much better than that douche bag.  But I couldn’t be a cockblocker.  That shit’s so gay.  And Ethan’s such a fag.  I guaranteed Jen a horrible night by trying to get him to keep his mouth shut.  He was that guy who only did shit if you told him not to or that he couldn’t.  A perfect example was that whore Stacey.  She kissed him once, and then decided she didn’t want to touch him anymore, so he became obsessed with fucking her. 

I patted Ethan on the back as I headed for the door.  I went home and broke my hand punching a wall after Marquette beat Kentucky – fucking Dwyane Wade.

Wet knees

Obviously, I had my suspicions.  Even before that night, I thought there was a possibility Sam was cheating.  My roommates said as much, too.  He was a frat boy for God’s sake.  He must’ve thought I was retarded with the shit he pulled on Yeungs and wings night.  All the signs were there.  Still, when a sketchy coke dealer tells you what you already suspect deep down, part of you resists.

“Thanks for the info,” I said, sarcastically.  “Why should I believe you?”

I had been with Sam for five months.  There were some things I didn’t like, but there were a lot of things I liked: he was funny and smart, and totally hot, sweet, gentle and caring when he wanted to be.  I was obligated to stand up for him to a complete stranger, especially one who readily admits to selling coke. 

And, I knew Sam did that shit, but I didn’t judge.  What’s wrong with experimenting in college?

“If you don’t believe me, take a look that bitch’s knees,” the coke dealer said.  “The floor in there’s covered with piss.”

The men’s room floor was always covered in piss.  That was no secret.  It was the Bulldog.  So, I was a little taken back when I turned and saw the disgustingly huge wet stains on the girl’s knees.

“That could be from anything,” I said.

“It could be, but it’s not.  It’s from her being on her knees in that bathroom with your boyfriend.”

“Fuck you.”  I hate saying that to people, but I felt it was warranted. 

I walked away and waited on tables.  As you can imagine, focusing was a bit of a problem.  I found myself constantly looking back towards that girl and checking out her wet knees.  It was as if each time I was expecting the stains to be gone.  At that point, I knew that coke dealer – this guy I have class with named Mark had introduced him earlier as Ethan, I think – was probably telling the truth.  But, I was totally in denial.

“Jen, did you get that?” this girl in a cute light green sweater said.

She lived down the hall from me freshman year.  I think her name was Crystal.  I was trying to wait on her and her friend, who was wearing this simple white dress shirt.

“She was watching CNN,” her friend said.

“Jen, you gotta change the channels.  You’re too wrapped up in this war.”

“I’m sorry for not paying attention,” I said.  “But there’s nothing wrong with being too wrapped up in this war.  In fact, I know a guy named Mark who doesn’t follow the war at all, and it drives me insane.  How can you not want to follow something so important to our generation?”

“Are you trying to convince him to be anti-war?” Crystal said.

“I’ve been trying to convince everyone I come in contact with to be anti-war,” I said.  “It’s totally undemocratic – just like this war – and I know I need to stop.”

“No, don’t stop,” Crystal said.  “I’m doing the same thing.  We need as many people against the war as possible.”

“It’s too late, give up,” her friend said.  “The war started.  You might as well support it.”

“Why should I support it?” Crystal said.  “This is an undemocratic war.  Iraq didn’t attack us.  A pre-emptive strike so we can force democracy on them?  It’s ridiculous.”

“This is all about oil and that assassination attempt on the first Bush,” I said.  “The inspectors were doing a good job.  But, Bush didn’t care about diplomacy.  He had his heart set on going to war because he wants to flex America’s muscles.  And the fact that we’re doing it practically alone is a huge mistake.”

“And think of all the innocent people who are going to die,” Crystal said.

“Exactly,” I said.  “And, it’s just like Powell said, ‘you break it, you buy it.’”

“Speaking of buying things,” her friend said kind of rolling her eyes.

I felt like a shitty waitress.  I apologized and finished taking their orders.  Then I fled to the ladies room.  I had to think.  Talking about the war had taken my mind off Sam.  But, once I realized thinking about the war and all the people who were dying over there did that, I tried too hard.  My mind went blank.  Then I thought about Mark, and what he said in economics about voting for people to think for you.  That put me back at my own problems, namely Sam.  I told myself there had to be a reasonable explanation for everything.

“There’s no way that coke dealer’s right,” I said to myself.

“But what if he is?” I countered back.  “It all makes sense.”

“Then you’ve been betrayed and humiliated,” I told myself.

A voice yelled the following thoughts, and they echoed inside my head:

“Why me?  What did I do wrong?  It can’t be true.  Why would Sam cheat on me?  I can’t believe this is happening.”

I broke down and buried my head in my hands.  I cried in silence.  Tears escaped through the cracks of my fingers and dripped onto the linoleum floor.

The bathroom door opened, and I sniffed away all the tears and rubbed the hell out of my eyes.  The sound of a hundred conversations muffled by 50 Cent filled the air while I recovered.  For fear of some stranger realizing that I had been crying, I bit my lip and didn’t make a sound when the door closed.

“Can you hear me now?” a voice said.  “So, how’s UVA? … Cool, cool.  You wouldn’t believe how fucked I am right now…Just Scottie and me.”

I peaked through a gap on the stall doorframe.  And there were those wet knees, mocking me again.  My natural instinct was to sit there and be quiet. 

“You gotta get a fake,” she said into the phone.  “Well, the doorman doesn’t scan it here on Yeungs and. … No, I’m in the bathroom.  I’m gonna fix my makeup, and then I’m gonna do a key bump. … Huh? … Yeah, this guy I blew tonight gave it to me. … I know; I’m such a slut.  Oh, and I blew him in the men’s room, too, so there. … Seriously, and he gave me the coke so I wouldn’t rat him out to his stupid girlfriend, who’s one of the pathetic waitresses at this place.”

I made this sound that was something between a gasp and a huff.  Whatever it was, it was too loud. 

“Hold on,” she said into the phone.

She bent down and looked directly at me through the gap on the stall doorframe.  We locked eyes.

“Oh my God,” she said into the phone.

She grabbed her purse and ran out of the ladies room.  My heart was pounding.  I was too shocked to cry, too stunned to do anything but sit there, my hands pressed to the walls of the stall.

Once the door closed behind her, and the sound of people talking over music returned to a slight vibration in the air, I was able to think again.  I took a couple of minutes and came to the conclusion that I had three choices:

1)      I could go to the off-duty police officer who was working the door and tell him about that girl’s coke and fake ID.  Then go pour a pitcher of Yeungling over Sam’s head, while the cop hauled the slut away.

2)       I could leave the girl alone since she thought Sam was single and named Kyle, and just fill up a pitcher of Yeungling and dump it over Sam’s head, while screaming, “We’re through!  We’re through you unfaithful bastard!”

3)      Break up with Sam and take the high road and not seek any revenge.

“I like the first one, but instead of being a NARC, why don’t you beat the shit out of that slut?  Slam her head against a table and tear off her clothes.”

Chris was the chef, and he loved catfights.  He also loved butting into other people’s conversations.  But, it served me right for pouring my guts out to my best friend at work, Stephanie, right there in the kitchen.

“Only an asshole like you would say something like that,” Steph said to Chris.  “She should choose the second one.  That girl’s a whore, but she’s innocent.  And Sam deserves something for cheating on her, especially right here while she’s at work.”

“No!” I said.  “I already did the third one.  I told Sam I didn’t want to get talk to him ever again.  Will you take over his table?”

“Sure, no problem,” Steph said.  “But, you gotta get him back.”

“No,” I said.  “Revenge is the worst thing ever, and it doesn’t solve anything.  If I did something to Sam, he’d get me back – the same for that girl.  She’d seek revenge, and then what?  I’d have to get back at them?  So you go back and forth until the next thing you know you’re at war.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Chris said.  “Fuck that dude and his popped collar.  God, I fucking hate that frat boy.  You know, he’s the reason I snapped at you earlier.”

“I didn’t back up the kitchen?”

“C’mon, the kitchen’s always backed up,” Steph said.

“Easy there, Flo,” Chris said to Steph.

Usually, I laughed when Steph was called Flo.  She was tall and skinny and had red hair like the actress on Alice.  But, I didn’t that time.  “Why do you hate Sam?” I said to Chris.

“About a year ago, before you started here, he picked up this waitress I was dating, and he took her to his frat house and railed her – fucking bastard.”

I was instantly angrier with Sam and felt bad for Chris at the same time.  Chris always really fell for whatever girl he was with.  He would later tell me it was because he was insecure about his weight.  He was big, but I thought it suited him. 

“Why didn’t you tell her that a while ago?” Steph said.

“Men don’t do that kinda shit,” he said.  “That’s fucking gay.”

“That’s insane,” I said

“Guys are ridiculous,” Steph said.

“Hey, you know he’s an asshole now,” Chris said to me.

“After five months,” I said.

“Well, get even with him then, and that bitch, too,” he said.

“Are you talking about the girl with the wet knees?” said this busboy named Brandon.  He’d just entered the kitchen carrying a tray of empty wing baskets.

“Yeah,” Steph said.

“Her and her fat friend just left,” Brandon said.

“I can’t believe your boyfriend cheated on you with her,” said this other waitress named Kayla.  She had a tray of food in her hand and was heading out to the bar.

“Wow, everyone knows,” Chris said, turning around and getting back to cooking.

“How does everyone know?” I said.

“Well, you’ve been standing here in the kitchen talking about it for like 10 minutes,” Brandon said.

“I mean, she has no breasts compared to you,” Kayla said, standing by the door.  “And can you believe she has the nerve to wear carpis with calves that big?”

“I liked her blue halter top, though,” Steph said.

“Me too,” Kayla said.  “Oh, speaking of blue, did you see that guy in the blue sweater turtleneck?  Wow was he hot.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I know him.  His name’s Mark.”

I suddenly thought of something I had said to Mark that night.  I repeated it over and over again inside my head, and then I let it slip out loud.

“You’re not having a worse night than everyone in Iraq right now.”

Kayla, Steph, and Brandon had moved on to another subject – some annoying customer.  They looked at me funny.  Before I could explain, the manager stormed into the kitchen.  His name was Rob.  He was tall and mean looking with this wannabe Tom Selleck mustache.

“Why the fuck are you people standing around in here?” Rob said.  “It’s Yeungs and wings night.  Get to fucking work.” 

Each of us started in a different direction.  I headed towards the bar.  Rob was standing in front of the door.  He stopped me and spoke in a lower tone.

“Jen, I said you could put the war on a couple TVs – not half of them.  I support the troops, too, but this is a sports bar.  I mean, Christ, I’ve gotten two complaints already.”

            “So have I,” I said, looking down.  “I’ll go change a bunch of them.”

            A minute later, I was aiming a remote control at a TV that was high on the wall above me.  I changed the channel from a grainy cell phone video of a reporter in the desert to some basketball game.  I went to a second TV.  I changed the channel from a clip of innocent Iraqi civilians climbing through rubble to some cable sports highlights show.

            That sketchy coke dealer stopped me on my way to a third TV.

            “You can thank me later tonight if you want,” he said.

            Sam came out of nowhere and got in the coke dealer’s face. 

            “Why you gotta fucking say shit, huh?” Sam said.  “What kind of a faggot are you, you dirty wigger?”

            Everyone within a 20-foot radius was looking at them.  Somewhat of a circle had formed around them, too.

            “Fuck you, preppy,” the coke dealer said.

            Sam punched the coke dealer in the gut, and then he grabbed him and kneed him in the face repeatedly.  I squirmed my way through the wall of people around the fight.  Everyone was cheering.  I ran behind the bar and turned around.  The Bulldog’s bouncer, a body builder named Steve, and the off-duty police officer broke through the wall of people and stopped the fight.  Sam and the coke dealer were hauled outside.

            It was over just like that.  The cheering died down almost to the point of silence.  And then the crowd started back up again.  They drank beer and ate wings.  A couple minutes later, it was as if the fight had never happened.

            “Excuse me,” this guy in a Redskins sweatshirt said.  “Could you change the channel of one of the big screens that has war on?  I wanna watch the Wizards game.”

            I changed the channel for him, and he thanked me.  I ended up turning the war off all the TVs but two.  No one complained.  They just kept eating and drinking.

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Yeungs and Wings (2003)

By Gavin | August 3, 2009

Jen backed through the kitchen door with a tray full of garbage.  The sizzle from the deep fryer took a backseat to the ringing in her ears.  The Wednesday night special had gotten so big with the college crowd that the manager hired a D.J. to play from ten to close.  Music didn’t make Jen’s job any easier.  She had trouble hearing her customers, and she had to yell for them to hear her. 

I gotta get outta this place, she thought, putting her tray on the counter.  I need to go to school full-time again.  I have to graduate; this sucks.  This sucks so bad.

She began cleaning off her tray, throwing the napkins and cups into the garbage can first.  Then she dumped two baskets of wing bones.  The bones blanketed the top of the garbage.

“Gross,” she said.  “I’m never gonna be able to eat wings again.”

Chris, the cook, stood over the deep fryer, bobbing his head to the song the D.J. was playing.  He ignored Jen; Chris never paid attention when the waitresses bitched to him, only when they bitched at him.  Jen didn’t care that he hadn’t replied; she was too busy peeling the paper out of each basket.  Tossing the paper on top of the bones, she noticed the garbage was at the brim of the can. 

Where the hell’s Ricardo, she thought.  He needs to take out the fucking garbage.

The sink was filled with dirty dishes and used baskets.  Jen set the two baskets on top of the pile, and then turned to Chris and said, “The sink and the garbage can are full.  You need to tell Ricardo to do his fucking job.  Where’s he at; in the alley smoking a joint?”

            Chris turned around and put a basket of fries and a basket of 25 hot wings on her tray.  “Ricardo went home sick; that’s my job tonight.  You want me to forget about the next batch of 25 wings and do that shit?”

            Jen picked up the tray and smiled.  “I’m sorry; I didn’t know.  If you’re late with those wings, you’ll make my life hell.  Sam’s been talking about this bet all week.”

            “Don’t you think it’s sad that watching his Chinese friend try to eat 50 wings in an hour is the highlight of your boyfriend’s week?”

            Jen nodded her head and laughed.  She backed out the door with the tray on her shoulder and headed towards table three.  With everyone yelling over the music, Jen caught portions of conversations as she crossed the bar.

            “I have Kentucky winning it all,” a guy at the bar said.  Two girls cut in front of Jen, making her stop.  The shorter of the two said, “So I was like, ‘why should I believe you?’”  The girls passed and Jen continued walking.  She went past table seven, and some guy in a Polo shirt said, “Nine-eleven has nothing to do with this.”

            Can I go ten minutes without hearing that shit, Jen thought.  Sam and Wang watched her approach; both looked excited.  Chris is right, she thought, they’re way too into this.  Fuck, he can’t know I think it’s stupid.  I gotta show him I care about it, so the next time he doesn’t give a shit about something I like, I can use it against him.

“Here you guys go,” she said, reaching the table.  She set the fries down in front of Sam and the wings in front of Wang.  Sam looked at his watch.

“One hour starting… Now!” he said.

            Wang put a whole wing in his mouth and peeled off all the meat, leaving nothing but gristle.  He tossed the bone onto the table and grabbed another wing.

            “You’re not done with that,” Sam said.

            “Gristle!” Wang said, his mouth full.

            “You gotta eat everything on the bone like John Candy had to with the steak in The Great Outdoors,” Sam said. 

As Wang tore off the gristle, Jen went to the bar to get him a glass of water and Sam another cup of Yeungling.  While pouring the beer, a man sat down in front of her and asked for a Yeungling.  She finished filling the cup and gave it to him.  Then she grabbed a new cup for Sam.

“I thought this was a sports bar,” the man said, pointing to one of the TVs. 

Jen thought he had said, ‘I bought this sports car,’ and she looked up at the TV, expecting to see a car commercial.  Instead, she saw Wolf Blitzer’s head; the close captioning read: The U.S. convoy to Baghdad came under enemy fire today near the holy city of Najaf. 

Jen leaned across the bar and said, “What was that?”

“I said ‘I thought this was a sports bar?’”

“Oh…  It is.”

“Then why’s CNN on every other screen?”

“I know; like really.  What do you wanna watch?”

            “Channel 35.”

            Jen grabbed a remote to one of the TVs and changed the channel from war coverage to hockey coverage.  The man satisfied, she set Sam’s beer on her tray and picked up a glass.  As she filled it with water, two guys came up to the bar.  One wore a blue sweater with a Pitt hat on turned backwards, and the other had on a black leather jacket, each individual hair on his head spiked from too much gel.

            “Two Yeungling drafts,” blue sweater said.  He dangled two dollars over the bar.  Jen told him to hold on as she placed the glass of water on her tray.  Then she grabbed two cups.

            “Why plastic cups?” blue sweater said.

            “That’s what we use for the special.”

            “Might as well give us Dixie—”

“Dude, did you see that?” leather jacket said.  He pointed to a basketball game on TV.   “That guy from Marquette’s killing Kentucky.”

Jen looked up at the TV while pouring the beer.  The closed captioning read: Dwayne Wade with another three; that’s his third of the night.

Basketball sucks, she thought.  At least football’s over.  Football really sucked.

“Fucking Marquette,” blue sweater said.  “I had’em losing in the first round.  If it weren’t for them I’d be winning it.  If they beat Kentucky that’s it, I’m done.”

Jen handed blue sweater a cup of Yeungling.  He passed it to leather jacket and said, “Now a glass for me, right?”  He smiled and reached back into his pocket. 

That’s right buddy, dig for a tip, she thought.  What an asshole; gotta be a frat boy.  I wonder if this moron’ll give me a tip every time I get him a glass of beer?

She grabbed a glass, and while she filled it, leather jacket said something to her, but all she heard was ‘CNN.’  She was about to ask him to say it again when blue sweater said, “We’re supporting the troops by following what’s going on, asshole.”

The man who’d been watching the hockey game turned and said, “I was there in ’91, and trust me, the troops want us to watch sports, eat wings, and drink beer like we normally do.”

“Amen brother,” leather jacket said.  “Fuck the war!  Let’s watch the tournament and get fucked up!”

Jen handed blue sweater the glass of Yeungling, and he gave her four bucks.  She opened the cash register and put two dollars inside.  Then she stuffed the two extra bills into a tip jar under the bar.  She grabbed her tray and headed back to table three.  On the way, she picked up bits and pieces of the conversations that were going off all around her.

“That bitch is so annoying,” said a guy in a red dress shirt.  Then she heard a girl in a blue tube top say, “Iraq is better off without Saddam.”  A guy in a white hooded sweatshirt stepped out of Jen’s way and yelled, “It just said Arizona’s winning,” to someone behind her.

After weaving her way through the minefield of conversations, she got to table three and set the beer and water down in front of Sam and Wang.  Sam was inspecting a bone.

“I’ll let this one slide, but only because I know you’re gonna lose.”

“What’s the count?”

“Nine wings in 12 minutes.”

Wang was leaning on the table with his elbows, rotating a wing in front of his mouth like it was a corn on the cob.  Hot sauce dripped off his fingers, and the remaining wings were floating in the basket. 

“I’ll go get you more napkins.”

On her way back with the napkins, Jen saw two girls sit down at table one.  She tossed the napkins in front of Wang and went over to them.  The girl on the left wore a red and green striped sweater, and the girl on the right had on a white dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, showing off her cleavage.  Jen took her notepad and pen out of her apron pocket and said, “What can I getch-ya to drink?”

“Hey, aren’t you in my marketing class?” striped sweater said.

“Yeah, 10:30 with Dr.—”

“Are those Travis’ friends,” cleavage said, pointing towards table three.  While striped sweater looked, Jen scribbled on her notepad.  Quit looking at them and order you stupid sluts, she thought.

“Yeah that’s them, and Wang’s eating like a pig,” striped sweater said.

“He’s trying to eat 50 wings in an hour to win a bet with Sam,” Jen said.

“What are they betting?” striped sweater said.

“The loser has to pick up the tab and buy the winner a case of beer, but speaking of beer, do you guys want Yeungling drafts?”

“Screw dollar drafts.  I’ll have a Long Island,” cleavage said, and then striped sweater said, “Make that two.”

Jen didn’t know how to make a Long Island Ice Tea.  Rick, the bartender, usually made drinks like that for her, but he was too busy waiting on the men who’d surrounded the bar to eat wings, drink beer, and watch basketball.  So she asked Dana, the head waitress, to make the drinks for her, and Dana said, “Sure, if you clean table five for me.”

Walking towards the table, Jen saw why Dana didn’t want to clean it; the bones and cups that covered the table were sitting in a pool of hot sauce.  Jen scanned the garbage for a tip, but there wasn’t one. 

Fucking bitch, Jen thought, she wouldn’t have asked me to do this if there was a tip here.  I’ve always hated that fucking slut.

With a wad of napkins in each hand, she picked up the bones and put them into a basket.  She put that basket on her tray and surrounded it with the rest of the garbage.  To clean up the hot sauce, she went to the bar and got a wet rag.  Walking back to table five, she saw Wang bite into a wing; hot sauce squirted out of the meat and onto his face.  Sam threw his head back, laughing, and Jen said to herself, “He’s such an idiot.”  She noticed he was done with his fries, so after wiping off table five, she went over to table three. 

Picking up the empty basket, she said, “How were your French fries?”

“You mean Freedom fries,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and walked away.  Sam tried to stop her, saying, “I was just kidding, they were fine,” but she was too far away to hear.  Jen went to the kitchen where Chris and one of the other waitresses were arguing.

“For God’s sake Kristy, they’ll be done when they’re done,” Chris said.

Jen set her tray on the counter and looked at the garbage can; the bones were stacked like a pyramid above the can’s cylinder. 

He’s behind because of Sam’s order, she thought.  Taking out the garbage is the least I could do. 

Jen lifted up the plastic bag where it hung over the side of the can and began pushing the bones down with her tray. 

“Just hurry up, these people are giving me shit,” Kristy said.  She stormed out, and then Chris said, “What are doing?”

“Helping.”

“You’ve helped enough.”  He put a basket of 25 wings and a new tray on the counter and said, “Thanks, but just go; I’ll take care of that shit.”

Jen grabbed the tray and said thanks.  She left the kitchen and walked back across the bar, conversations going off all around her.  “Yes!  Did you see that?  Wade’s killing them,” a guy in a Steelers jersey said.  Then a girl almost bumped into Jen.  The girl took a step back and said, “Excuse me.”  Jen nodded her head and kept walking.  She passed a girl who had a cell phone to one ear and a finger to the other.  “Wait, I can’t hear you,” the girl said.  “I’m going outside.” 

The girl wasn’t paying attention and almost walked into Jen.  But Jen saw her coming and stepped out of the way.  As the girl passed, Jen saw Dana waving to her from the bar.  Jen walked over and Dana set the Long Island Ice Teas on her tray.

“Thanks a bunch,” Dana said.

“Yeah, thanks a bunch,” Jen said.  She turned around and mumbled, “Thanks a bunch you shit stain.”  Then she went to table three and set the basket on the table. 

“Here’s the rest of them.  So, what’s the count?” she said.

“Twenty-three wings with 31 minutes left,” Sam said.

She walked away, satisfied that she’d shown interest in the bet, but her mood soured when she set the Long Island Ice Teas down at table one.  Cleavage blew smoke in her face, and then waved it off by saying, “Oh, I’m so sorry sweetie; I didn’t see you there.”

You fucking cunt, Jen thought.  But she said, “That’s okay, the bar’s one big—”

“You should be wearing your contacts,” striped sweater said.

“It’s dark in here slut; besides, I don’t need help to see what’s going on in the world around me, unlike some people I know,” cleavage said. 

“Here we go,” striped sweater said to Jen.

Pointing to the TVs, cleavage said, “This isn’t war coverage, it’s War-tainment. All three 24-hour news stations had orchestras specially make the background music for their promos.”

“So?” striped sweater said.

“So, it’s sensationalism, it’s pandering to the lowest common denominator, and the worst are those old retired generals that—”

“Lowest common denominator?  Are you on crack?” striped sweater said.

“Shut up and listen bitch,” cleavage said.  “Those old farts are like washed up ball players who color commentate.”

“We’re at war; they’re covering it, and they’re revolutionizing the way it’s covered.  Have you seen the cell phone cams?” striped sweater said.

“Those don’t show shit.  They’re just another graphic to hype up so we stay tuned in as they go to another commercial.  That’s what this is all about, selling ads and making money; network execs love war,” cleavage said. 

I’m so sick of people talking about this shit, Jen thought.  Just shut the fuck up for one second so I can ask if you want food.  If they don’t shut up soon I’m gonna snap.  No I won’t; I gotta be nice; I can’t be rude; I gotta get a tip.

“What do you think?” striped sweater said to Jen.

“Me, I, ah, have a cousin over there, so I think we should support the troops.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I hope he’s okay,” striped sweater said.

“Thanks,” Jen said.  “Actually he’s a she, but I did have an uncle who fought in ’91, and he says the troops want us to continue our every day lives and not worry.”

“Ya see,” cleavage said, holding up her drink.  “Our government kills other people so we can get fucked up and fuck.”

“I’d love to drink to that if I wasn’t working, but I am, so, do you guys care to see menus; want any wings?”

“Twenty cents or a penny, I don’t want any wings, thank you,” cleavage said, and then striped sweater said, “We’re vegetarians.”

“Okay,” Jen said.  “I’ll be back; holler if ya need anything.”

Fuck those cunts, Jen thought, walking away.  They better gimme a good fucking tip or I’m spitting in their drinks next time I see’em in here. 

Jen went back to table three and set her tray down in front of Sam.  He was on the phone.  She stood behind him and leaned on his shoulders, resting her head on his.  She watched Wang tear the skin off a wing from the new batch.  Red napkins and bones covered the table; Wang’s glass of water had a red handprint smudged on it. 

“They’re both here, Travis,” Sam said into his phone.  “Yup, war’s on too.”

He patted Jen on her shoulder with his free hand.  When he pulled his hand away, she stood up straight and rubbed his shoulders.  She looked at a TV; CNN was showing a clip of a soldier firing a hand held rocket.  The closed captioning read: Marines engaged in a firefight with Iraqi soldiers who were hiding in a Mosque on Wednesday. 

She rolled her eyes and looked at another screen; the basketball game went to a TV timeout and a promo for Kentucky University came on.  The closed captioning read: Soft music playing; a bell ringing in the distance.  Kentucky University students get a head start on life.

A head start on life; must be nice, she thought.  I wish I went to a nice school like that.  Who am I kidding?  Mom can’t even afford me to go to this piece of shit school full-time.  This sucks so bad.

“So what if they keep showing the clip of her rescue – it’s news,” Sam said.

Wang tossed a bone on the table without chewing off the gristle, but Sam and Jen didn’t notice.

“Why would the government make up her story?” Sam said. 

He turned around and pointed at his phone, shaking his head.  Jen smiled and moved to the side of the table.  Wang threw a wing on the table that hadn’t been picked clean and Jen caught him.

“Baby, Wang’s cheating,” she said.

“I gotta go Trav; Wang’s cheating.  What?  Yeah, I’d bang’er too, but not until all those gunshot wounds heal – okay, later.” 

Staring at Jen, Wang picked up the last wing he’d discarded and tore off the gristle.  Sam hung up his phone and said, “You’d better.”

“Who are those bitches over there?” Jen said, nodding towards table one.

“Two sluts Travis knows,” Sam said.  “He invaded the one in the white shirt’s southern most border.”

“Funny.  So, you’d bang that soldier girl?”

“C’mon now; I was amusing a pothead who chose to sit at home and watch the war instead of come out on Yeungs and wings night.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever.  It’s Trav – you know he’s nuts.  Two days ago he told me this was our generation’s Vietnam, and yesterday he said this was the beginning of the Apocalypse because of something the Bible says.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” she said.  “You know I hate hearing about this.”

Wang tossed a bone on the table, and then grabbed his water.  He finished the glass.  Jen picked it up when he was done and said, “I’ll get you another.”

“Get me another Yeungling too, please,” Sam said.

Cleavage was sitting at the table when Jen returned.  As Jen set the drinks down, cleavage said, “Cheney’s been pushing this war just so his buddies at Halliburton can steal Iraq’s oil and get richer.”

This slut needs to go, Jen thought, all she talks about is the fucking war.  I should just walk away – fuck; if I do that she’ll probably flirt with Sam.  Goddamn bitch; now I gotta stand here and listen to this shit.  Might as well clean up a little.

“Would it be that bad if we had their oil?” Sam said.  “The only reason France, Russia, and Germany are against us is because they have billion dollar oil contracts with Saddam.”

Wait a second, Jen thought; he’s talking to this bitch in front of me, and he hasn’t introduced me as his girlfriend yet.  Oh, fuck him.

“With that oil, we’ll practically rule the world,” cleavage said.

“We rule the world now,” Sam said, raising his cup to his mouth.  He paused before taking a drink and said, “Oh, before I forget, Tammy this is my girlfriend Jen; Jen, Tammy”

Tammy and Jen shook hands.  Tammy gave a fake smile, but Jen didn’t notice, she was too busy figuring out how many minutes it took Sam to introduce her.

“When we’re done with Iraq,” Sam said, putting down his cup, “we should invade Syria then Iran then North Korea.  And after that we should go back into Vietnam and give those yellow bastards a little taste of the ‘Shock and Awe.’”

Wang pounded his fists on the table, and Sam said, “That’s your 33rd wing, and you only have 15 minutes left.”

Wang grabbed another wing and growled. 

“You know I’m just kidding,” Sam said.  He looked at Jen to back him up, but she shook her head and left for the kitchen with a tray full of garbage. 

She can flirt with him all she wants, Jen thought, walking away.  It’s not worth it, standing there.

Jen cleaned off her tray; Chris had changed the garbage can.  She went to the bar and poured another glass of Yeungling for blue sweater, and he gave her another two-dollar tip.  Then she filled a pitcher with water and poured a cup of Yeungling and headed back to table three. 

As Jen cut through the crowd, the D.J. put on 50 Cent’s “In Da Club.”  Girls wanting to dance and guys wanting to dance with girls rushed to the poor excuse of a dance floor.  Jen dodged people left and right, striped sweater and Tammy among them.  With Tammy gone, Jen set Sam’s Yeungling down in front of him with a smile on her face.   

“Why didn’t you tell me you have a cousin over there?” Sam said.

“I don’t.  I made it up to get a pity tip,” Jen said.

“You con artist.”

“Hey, who cares if I lie to get money outta dipshits who aren’t grateful for how I serve them?”  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a dressed up couple sit down at table four.

“If Trav was here he’d compare you to our government and—”

“Enough!  I gotta go,” she said.  “What’s the count?”

“Thirty-seven wings with 11 minutes left.”

Jen was sick of hearing about the war, but she couldn’t escape it.  The couple at table four was arguing about weapons of mass destruction.  Jen interrupted them to get their drink order.  Then she went away.  She hoped the couple would be done arguing when she returned, but they weren’t.  Jen set the drinks down and interrupted again. 

“I’ll be right over here,” she said, pointing to table three.  “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

Wang had four wings to go with two minutes left in the hour.  He gnawed the gristle off his 46th wing, and then as he grabbed the next one, the man at table four said, “Excuse me, waitress.”

The woman ordered first, and as the man began to tell Jen what he wanted, she heard Sam counting down the remaining seconds.  Jen glanced over out of the corner of her eye when the counting stopped.  She saw Wang hurry towards the bathroom.  Sam’s arms were raised in victory, the lone uneaten wing in his right hand.

“I won!  I won!” Sam said to Jen.  She looked up for a second and missed what the man had ordered.  “I’m sorry, what was that?” she said.

“What’s all that about?” the man said, nodding to Sam.

“Oh, he bet the other guy that he couldn’t eat 50 wings in an hour.”

“Things like that are why people hate us,” the woman said.

“It’s jealousy,” the man said.  “They wish they could afford to eat like us.”

The couple got into another argument.  Jen stood there, debating whether or not to walk away.  I’ve all ready interrupted them twice, she thought, if I go now, they’d leave me shit for a tip for sure.

So Jen stood there, hoping they wouldn’t drag her into the debate, but that was as unavoidable as seeing clips of the war on TV.

“What do you think?” the man said to Jen. 

I don’t care, she thought.  Fuck, I gotta say something both of them will like.  She scratched her head and looked at Sam and Wang’s table.  Seeing how messy it was again, Jen blurted out “What a waste.”

Jen got the rest of the man’s order, and then went back to the kitchen. 

Chris turned around from the grill and said, “Who won?”

Jen didn’t hear him; her ears were ringing.  Looking up she said, “Huh?”

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