On Fire

Wes Clapp was fired from work, so I invited him over for drinks. When he arrives, Nick, Sam, myself and the television are one - the video game is called NBA Hangtime, the console is a Nintendo 64, and there's an ashtray on every surface because we need them. Scrolling through the rosters of the mid-nineties heavyweights, we fawn over Dennis Rodman's ability to push people down whenever he goddamn wants, and lament that Latrell Sprewell is not very good and doesn't even have a 'choke' option. The heads of the characters are pastel blurs, and John Stockton looks like Stephen Colbert, in a pixelated, antiquated sort of way. The game moves at a ridiculous pace - it's full of uncalled fouls and goaltending and occasionally Reggie Miller will be on fire, throwing the ball from halfcourt and sinking every shot - just like it used to be.
This was mostly the entire night, at least what I can recall of it. Wes left, seeming defeated. I don't know him too well but he's a nice guy - and guys like me seem less pernicious next to guys like him. We got lit, yelled humorously for a while, normal night, especially since it's Spring Break and I'm in the midwest. Sam went to his room and Nick slept on the couch and I wondered what my free throw ritual would be when I bounced upstairs to pass out.

* * * * * * * *

The next day I realize I have fourteen hundred dollars in my bank account from my federal tax return and that a tsunami has just devastated Japan. I owe the state eighty bucks but I consider it a wash and remind myself to save at least eight-hundred of it for a car. Nick gets fired, but he's less than shocked and more than happy to drink a couple pitchers of beer with the usual cast. The band I play bass for had a show, and it took a sharp turn into surreal darkness when a guy drunker than my recently rich-ass gets huffy about a t-shirt. Sam and I are both oblivious because we are on the brink of obliteration and this little fella slurring about how I was 'unprofessional' was mind-boggling and buzz-killing - I guess my sense of humor didn't appeal to his fine sensibilities. The last time I wanted to punch someone was over three years ago, and I was surprised to see my fists ball up when he insulted me and then tried to shake my hand - but that is a low move, even if you're loaded. The issue was more or less resolved, money was made, beers were drank, and I decided that I didn't want to sleep alone, so I found a bed a little bigger than mine and someone who didn't mind sharing it with me.

* * * * * * * *

I don't get a chance to sleep in late but it's probably better that way. The sun is out and the wind is out and I'm not hungover. I consider my budget and decide to buy some tea. The whole process takes about forty-minutes - I ride the bus to campus, withdrawal three brand new twenty dollar bills, exchange one of them for four wrinkled Lincoln's at my job and joke that I'm taking bets on when I'm getting fired. A few of the people giggle - I've been working here for a lot longer than most of them, and most of them are terribly boring. The place used to be filled with Dennis Rodman's and Charles Barkley's, now it's a bunch of Detlef Schrempfs.

I leave the shop and walk north. The city is overrun with potholes due to a particularly icy February (in the sense that ice would fall from the sky every other week.) There's a small caravan of vehicles that two men with shovels are following. They stop and go up the avenue, scooping asphalt from the truck and into the holes. I think these guys could use what I'm buying.
I pay for the tea and sit with some nice jam-rock people for a while while someone plays Super Mario on the Nintendo Wii. You can actually see Mario's mustache wiggle under his nose whenever he jumps. We've come a long way, baby.

* * * * * * * * *

The wind died down as I walked back to campus to catch the bus home - but I decide to give Nick a call and see what he's doing, which is nursing a hangover through the healing properties of orange gatorade and pistachios. I ask him if he's heard about the Tsunami, and he says yeah and we focus our attention to the computer. We both have beers and cigarettes and the internet in our hands, and we consume them. I tell Nick to pull up a particular video: It's taken from a helicopter floating above vast areas of farmland, and the massive flood carrying homes and cars rolls over the landscape. The newscaster narrating the events almost laughs a little when a house that is on fire floats effortlessly with the tide. Nick and I agree that it's all pretty amazing in the awe-inspiring sense and that the flashing neon parts of Japan are the parts you don't want to be in at the moment. We wonder if a series of cats will eventually pop up out of nowhere and provide commentary on the tsunami. The jokes help - I'm not proud of them, the pithy jabs at death we take with our witty fists, but they help me, and they help my friends.

Nick says that our boss didn't even fire him directly, and that if he can't get his job back he's going to call him out for being a timid idiot, which he is. I tell him to do it, he says that going out quietly from that sandwich prison wouldn't be his style. I agree. We part ways and make vague plans to drink later at a mutual friend's house. Fifteen minutes later, I'm still at the bus stop. There's a clear view of the road the bus comes from and when it swings its weight around that corner it almost seems like it will tip over and spill people all over the sidewalks and pothole infested road. But it doesn't - I get on, and I know where my stop is.