“Here,” he says, handing Travis a shot, as Travis sits up and re-ignites the pounding in his head, although it has been lessened substantially by four more hours of unconsciousness. Looking at the shot for a moment, Travis sniffs it, detecting a hint of something like peppermint schnapps or Jägermeister or both. Thinking about it for a moment, Travis rationalizes that the minty flavor will be something like brushing his teeth; and God knew whatever it tasted like, it was better than the current putrid occupant. He swings his head back and lets the thick sugary fluid wash down his throat, taking with it most of the dryness as the glands in his mouth attempt to put out the fire wrought by the shot.

Ian hands Travis a glass of water and two Aspirin. “Thanks, man,” Travis says before drinking the water.

“Whatever the hell was in that Jungle Juice was beating me up when I got up, too.”

“What the hell happened?” Travis asks.

“You passed out.” Ian laughs as he moves around the room picking up trash. “We all hooked up with Jackson and went out to the back house. You guys smoked a bowl and then you were gone.”

“I remember that,” Travis says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We were all standing outside for while—you hadn’t said anything—you and Nick. And then you mumbled somethin’ like, ‘I got ‘g fo’ m’self pl’s’ and wandered off.” Ian imitates Travis, stumbling around the room with his arms limp at his side, bumping into furniture.

“And never the twain shall mix,” Travis responds. “I’m tellin’ ya’, if I’m drunk, I cannot smoke weed. It just fucks me up. I get sucked into Travisworld, and there’s no gettin’ out.”

“I know, dude,” Ian says, still chuckling. “I’m the same way. It’s one or the other—never both.”

“It’s stupid anyway. It’s not like I can enjoy the experience once I’m at that point.”

“I guess you got here all right. You were passed out on the couch when I came back. I even tried to get you to go up in one of the beds, but I couldn’t wake you up.”

Travis laughs and nods. “What’s your deal? You got a bed.”

Ian just shrugs. “I usually just put on a movie and end up falling asleep.”

“What happened to Nick and John?”

“Nick was as gone as you were, but he wanted to go home, so John took him.”

Travis stretches his forehead up, raising his eyebrows as far as they would go, to relax.

“You all right?”

“Oh yeah,” Travis replies. “I’m fine now.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “That shot actually helped, I think.”

“It’s liquid cocaine.”

“What?” Travis asks.

“I learned how to make it out in Spain. It’s got schnapps, Jäger, 141. It just gets you going—lot of sugar—and I guess the liquor helps with the hangover too.”

“Hair o’ the dog.”

“You wanna’ get some food?” Ian asks.

“That sounds good right about now. Let’s call Nick and John.”

Ian tosses Travis the portable. “I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves the room with a bag of garbage.

Dialing the number, Travis sits on the couch, observing the wreckage. “Geez,” he mumbles to himself with a sigh as the phone rings a second time.

“Hello,” comes a very gruff voice over the line.

“Hey, it’s Travis.”

The voice on the other end of the line moans loudly and the party hangs up. Travis laughs and hits redial.

The other party answers again. “Go away.” It’s Nick.

“C’mon, get your shit together and let’s go get breakfast.”

Nick just moans again.

“C’mon,” Travis says. “Bluebird.” Travis drags Nick’s favorite entree’s name out seductively,

“Germaaan aaapple paaancaaakes.”

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. “Mm. That does sound good.”

“We’ll have a big ol’ breakfast, and a nice little quesadilla,” Travis says, laughing. Quesadilla had been a running joke between them since Mardi Gras the year before.

“It’s siesta, you moron.”

“So, you’re coming?” Travis asks, picking up a bottle of Wite-out from off the coffee table.

“Yeah, yeah—keep your pants on. How ’bout if you give me thirty minutes or so to get showered. I feel like ass.”

“No problem—we’ll meet you guys there,” Travis says, tossing and catching the Wite-out absentmindedly.

“Right—oh wait.” There is some movement and no sound for a second, and then, “Some guy called for you this morning—said you would really want to call him back at 5-4-3-6-7-7-9. He woke me up.”

“Terribly sorry. People calling for me at two in the afternoon should know better than to do that,” Travis responds sarcastically as he scrounges over the coffee table for something to write on. Setting the Wite-out down, he picks up a pen and an index card. The Spanish word “mano” was written on one side, “hand” written on the other.

“Yeah! He should! And you tell him I’ll kick his ass if he does it again.”

“Tell me that number again,” Travis says.

“Uh… 5-4-3-6-7-7-9. David Spindler was the guy’s name.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“And you te’ him I’m comin’,” Nick warns through foam, brushing his teeth.

“Bla bla bla. Just get dressed and meet us at Bluebird.”

Nick mumbles something like, “Moky,” and hangs up.

Travis hangs up the phone and picks up the index card. Thinking about the name for a second, he dials the number as Ian walks back into the room. Ian gives a perplexed look. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece for a moment, Travis says, “They’re gonna’ meet us there in thirty minutes—give or take.”

Nodding, Ian starts picking up more trash.

“Uh, Yes,” Travis says into the phone, “I got a call from this number. I’m looking for David Spindler.” Ian sits down on the opposite couch and gets out his cigarettes. Travis waves and put two fingers to his mouth. Ian tosses him one. “Yes, that’s right.” Ian lights his own cigarette, then leans out over the coffee table with the lighter and Travis leans to get a light. “Really? No, that’s not too short a notice,” as Ian mouths the words, Now you’re my bitch. They both take drags off the cigarettes, making a cloud that filters the sunlight pouring into the room. “All right, I’ll come by then.” Travis looks at Ian, who is waiting to hear what the deal is, and raises his eyebrows. “Thanks a lot. Bye.”

“So?” Ian asks, getting up to turn the stereo on.

“So, somebody left a spot open next Friday night at Washington Street Tavern—the guy got my name from his bartender—said he saw my last show at DT’s.”

“Very cool.”

“Somethin’ to do,” Travis agrees.

“Think they’ll pay you much?”

“I don’t know. That’s why he wanted me to come down. I imagine he’ll say somethin’ like, because I’m not a normal Friday act, they can’t pay me the same.”

Ian nods.

“It’ll probably be fifty bucks plus percent of cover.”

“That’s not bad.”

“No, it’s not—drinkin’ money.” Travis agrees.

“We’ll just have to get everyone we know to go to the show.”

“That’ll be six bucks right there!”

Ian laughs. “I think we can do better than that.”

“I got a better idea: how ’bout if I don’t play and you and everybody just give me the money.”

“What would we be paying you for?”

“The privilege of being my friend.”

Ian sniffs. “I wouldn’t pay to be your friend.”

“I’d pay you,” Travis says defensively.

“Yeah, right.”

“Well,” Travis concedes, sitting back, “not a lot.”

Ian laughs.

“Here ya’ go, sonny,” Travis says, making his voice shake like an old man’s. “Here’s a nice shiny quarter.”

Ian just laughs again.

“Why, in my day,” Travis continues, keeping up the act, “A quarter would buy you a whole bunch friends. ‘Course, after the war, you could only get dead ones.”

“I don’t know about paying to get friends,” Ian says, stretching out on the couch, but I’d pay a shitload to make some people go away.”

“Who?” Travis asks, surprised and wondering at Ian’s unusual animosity.

“No one around here, I guess.”

“Me neither. Actually, I don’t suppose there’s anybody at all.” Travis thinks about it. “Hell, if I had enough money to do that, I’d probably rather spend it on my friends.”

“That’d be great. Walk into a bar, slam a fifty down and buy everybody drinks.”

“Yeah, like, if I won the lottery, I don’t think I’d tell anyone. I’d just surprise people with shit and not explain it—I’d be real clandestine about it.”

“I’d buy myself some shit.”

“Sure, sure. I’d do that too.”

“We could do some real criminal damage with a nice scanner, a twenty-inch monitor, software out the ass…”

“You know, that’s my favorite part of Christmas: giving presents. I don’t really care if I get anything—I really don’t.” Travis takes a drag off his cigarette, puts it out and pictures a scene in his head. “I love to see the expression on someone else’s face when they open a present and you got them something they really wanted—or even better, something they didn’t know they wanted.”

“You want another?” Ian says, sitting up, offering Travis a cigarette.

“You see?” Travis asks. “That’s why you’re my friend. I didn’t even realize I wanted a cigarette until you asked me.” Travis starts getting weepy after taking the cigarette and picks up a pack of matches off the coffee table. “You’re my best friend,” he blubbers. Somewhere behind the joke, Travis does feel a sense of despair, but just doesn’t understand its source.

Ian takes a drag off his cigarette and looks around the room. “I like that,” he agrees. “It is pretty cool when you get somebody something they really wanted.”

“That’s what I miss about Meryl.”

“What’s that?”

“The little shit we’d do for each other. Like, she’d leave me these notes everywhere—everywhere. I’d come back to Mary Jane after class, and there’d be a little note jammed in the seat cushions—Meryl tellin’ me she was happy or it was a beautiful day or that she loved me or somethin’. And I’d write her poems. Hell, she’s one of the only girls I ever went out with that took my poems seriously.”

“Really? That seems odd.”

“Why?”

“I thought women totally dug that shit,” Ian says, quietly observing his room. It occurs to him that he doesn’t have any pictures of Lisa anywhere.

“You know, I don’t get it either. They all act like that’s what they want, but the minute you try to get romantic, they laugh at you or get weird.”

“Eh. You’ll find somebody else like that.”

“I imagine I will.”

“I should get you to write poetry for Lisa in the meantime.”

“a la Cyrano de Bergerac?”

“Yeah. I can’t write poetry—not seriously anyway.”

“I prefer to write songs. That really embarrasses ‘em.”

“You ever serenaded anyone?”

“Yeah,” Travis says shortly.

“Didn’t go over well?”

“No.”

Ian leans forward. Travis was rarely short on words, and when he was, you could bet there was something worth digging for. “What happened?” Ian prods.

“I don’t know, dude,” Travis shakes his head. “She just wouldn’t stop laughing. It was annoying as fuck.”

“She was probably just nervous.”

“Yeah, but why would you be nervous? I understand that you might laugh a little, from the surprise—but I mean… we’re talking hysterics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. It was freakish.”

“She was laughing at you?”

“She was cackling, dude. I couldn’t even finish the fucking song.”

“Okay,” Ian agrees, leaning back in his seat, “That, actually, would be a bit much to take.” He leans forward again, “Did you dump her?”

Travis scratches his head. Part of his peachfuzz was flattened the wrong way and it hurt to scratch it; except that the hurt was a good kind, that Travis liked—like poking your tongue around a sore in your mouth—he really couldn’t help but do it. “Not right away.” Travis keeps scratching his head, as Ian thinks about the photograph issue. “You know what, though?”

“What?”

“The older I get, the less of those romantic people I find. They’re either young and romantic but annoyingly naive, or old and cynical. It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone that’s old and romantic.”

“Are you?”

“I used to be. I don’t know. After Meryl and I broke up…”

“Ah,” Ian dismisses Travis’s pessimism. “Hang in there.”

“Nah.”

“No?”

“I’m through lookin’… for a while.” Leaning over, Travis picks up Ian’s roomate’s guitar and begin fiddling with it. “It’s just gonna’ be me, a gee-tar and Mary Jane.”

“Vaquero,” Ian says approvingly.

“Yee-doggy.”

“Well,” Ian offers, “You always got us.”

“Shit. You know how miserable life would be without you guys?” Travis says, strumming a few chords to a new song. Playing a pale imitation of Los Lobos, “I am pathetic / my friends are pedantic / what a merry band we make.”

Ian laughs and waves his hand.

“Just think about having no one to hang out with except Lisa.”

“No!” Ian says. He puts his hands to his face and looks like a horror movie victim, “The estrogen…. the estrogen… can’t… take… it.”

Travis starts shaking like he is going into shock. “The sensitivity… overwhelming. Must think… crass… thoughts.”

“You know I love her to death, but sometimes, I just wish the girl would relax.”

“I know.”

They both sit for a moment, Ian just nodding to himself.

“You know,” Travis offers. “We can go ahead and go. They won’t care if we go ahead and get some coffee and a table.”

“Ye-ah,” Ian says, mid-yawn. “Yeah. Let’s go ahead and go.”

They both get up. Travis sets Bubble Boy’s guitar down back next to the couch in its rack. Ian stops and looks at it for a second, then picks it up and moves it to the other side of the room without saying anything.

“What’d'ya do that for?” Travis asks.

Shrugging Ian just replies, “He hates it when I move his shit around.”

Travis laughs, turns the stereo off, and they walk out the door, Ian closing it behind them.

“That’s really cool about you getting a gig for Friday,” Ian says as they head down the creaky front stairs.

“I’m a little worried about it, to be honest.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I haven’t practiced jack-shit in a week.”

“You sounded fine just then, dude.”

“You see, that’s the thing. It’s not like anyone else can tell the difference. I can tell the difference though. And it bugs me.”

“You know,” Ian offers, “it’s the same thing with the camera. I just know when it feels right and when it doesn’t. Course, I can Photoshop my shit—it’s not live.”

The two walk out of the Teke house into the parking lot over toward Ian’s car, a small, read Volkswagon Jetta with a bike rack and sun roof. Ian gets in first and moves a backpack, some papers and CD cases out of the passenger seat into the back. “I gotta’ clean this thing,” he mumbles as he moves his stuff around.

“God,” Travis says with false exasperation. “You’re such a slob.”

They drive downtown in a lumbering silence, Travis watching all the people who had been awake since the morning and wonders what it was like to live a “normal” life—a life where you ate your cereal, kissed your wife goodbye, and listened to the morning radio shows while stuck in rush hour traffic—when a day in summer was just another day. There were a lot of joggers on Milledge—mostly girls from the sororities, patiently maintaining the images they were brought up to be. Travis rolls down the windows to let a wind into the car. It had been sitting in the sun most of the day; and all of the interior was painfully hot to the touch. In the silence of the ride, with Sheryl Crow on the radio, Travis chews on his bottom lip and mounts a simple brown horse in his head. Are you coming back? one of the sorority joggers asks him, dressed in the heavy clothes of a farmer’s daughter. She looks up at him kindly, with a gentle love in her eyes, shaded by her bonnet. He’d known that love before, but looking off into the distance, somewhere in his heart he knows it is a love that will not keep him. Adjusting himself in the saddle, Travis just quietly says, I don’t know what I’m gonna’ do, darlin’. She weeps, a single tear that runs down her pale white cheek and on… past the bicycle shop. “Where are you going?” Travis asks suddenly, sitting up in his seat. Looking around, Ian looks disoriented for a moment and then sighs. He’d driven all the way down Hancock, completely missing the turn to Bluebird Café. “Sorry, dude. I’m just out. Of. It.”

“I hear ya’,” Travis says.

“God!” Ian declares, “I just feel stupid.”

“Stoopid,” Travis adds.

Ian opens his eyes wide and shakes his head, making a right onto Dougherty to correct the navigational error. Slapping his cheek with his right hand, Ian chides himself, “Wake up, damn it.”

Travis just shrugs. “We’ll get there all the same, Pirata.”

As soon as he lifts his head to check his surroundings, he regrets it. The small muscular movement required for him to lift his head up sends shockwaves of pain through his skull and sets off a throbbing—a too-familiar pounding. He immediately sets his head back down, and opens his mouth for the first time, only to discover that it is virtually stuck shut by a cottony slime and an evil taste; like he’d licked an ashtray and washed it down with melted styrofoam. Rolling his head to one side, Travis watches Ian sleep, his arms wrapped around his small frame, peaceful like an unplugged blender. In his friend’s current posture, there is no evidence of the dervish nature that normally consumes him.

Someone else was asleep in the armchair, but Travis can make out no more than a pair of legs without moving his head. Unfortunately, the identity of this mystery character, capable of sleeping upright, isn’t inspiration enough for Travis to tease the pain. Gradually, he falls back into a pleasant half-asleep state, from which vantage point he can watch the painted horses spin and kick.

“What?” asks Ian. He could tell something was up, that he was out of the loop.

“Touch it,” John says.

Smiling Ian looks to Travis for some clue as to what this is about, but Travis just smiles idly in return and shrugs.

“Touch it,” John urges more seriously.

Reaching out warily and laughing from nervousness, Ian moves to put his hand on John’s stomach, but as soon as he is within a hair’s reach, John sucks it back in and throws his arms out, screaming manaically. Ian jerks his hand back and leaps in his seat while Travis howls in the background. “What the fuck!?” Ian asks laughing.

John just shrugs.

“Did Rachel call you fat or something?”

Annoyed, “No.”

“You’re not fat, dude. You’re… stout…” Ian struggles with the words, trying to be honest, but not hurt his friend’s feelings.

“Thanks,” John replies curtly.

“What?” Ian asks.

John just drinks his beer, looking away and pretending to be hurt.

“C’mon man, what?”

Pushing his bottom lip out, John continues pouting.

Turning to Travis, Ian asks, “What’s up tonight?”

Travis sits up in his seat, suddenly excited, “You mean something’s actually going to happen tonight?”

Ian shrugs. “They’re havin’ another keg tonight,” he says, meaning his fraternity.

“Cool.”

“We could grab some free beer and then head downtown.”

“Let’s go to Lowrie’s.”

Ian and John both make faces.

“C’mon. It’s nickel night.”

Raising his eyebrows, Ian thinks about it. Nickel night usually proved to be fun. Lowrie’s was a dive bar. They cateredheld a monopoly on, actuallythe meat market in town. It was a kind of joke, too. When some poor soul who didn’t know his way around asked for directions to the nearest “happenin’ place,” they always got directions to Lowrie’s. Still though, on Thursday nights Lowrie’s sold everything for a nickel (with a five dollar cover charge). The basic object of nickel night (from the point of view of the attendants at any rate) was to drink enough to make-up for the cover, and then drink like a fish to see how good a deal you could get. The place usually packed it in on Thursday nights, especially when school was in session. The drinks were a nickel, but it took a half an hour to get one. Summer was different. If you got a table, or a booth preferably, the crowds of swingers were tolerable.

“C’mon, we haven’t done that in a while.” Travis enjoyed it the most of anyone in the pack. Of course, he was single, and though the women at Lowrie’s weren’t his type, it was fun to flirt and leer, or be leered at. John and Nick never felt quite the same. Ian, taken, could still sympathize.

“Let’s see what we all feel like later,” Ian offers in compromise.

“All right,” Travis says, leaning back. It was compromise enough to get them to think about it, and really he didn’t have his heart set on it anyway.

Looking at his empty can, John holds it up and looks to the other two. They’d finished smoking. “Ready?” he asks.

Travis and Ian reply by chugging the last of theirs and getting up to go. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out,” Travis calls as the three of them shuffle out of the room.Looking around Ians room at Ian and Travis with that mischievous grin, John sticks his stomach out, swelling it almost into a ball, and begins stroking it. Travis immediately starts laughing. This time he was in on the joke.

“What?” asks Ian. He could tell something was up, that he was out of the loop.

“Touch it,” John says.

Smiling Ian looks to Travis for some clue as to what this is about, but Travis just smiles idly in return and shrugs.

“Touch it,” John urges more seriously.

Reaching out warily and laughing from nervousness, Ian moves to put his hand on John’s stomach, but as soon as he is within a hair’s reach, John sucks it back in and throws his arms out, screaming manaically. Ian jerks his hand back and leaps in his seat while Travis howls in the background. “What the fuck!?” Ian asks laughing.

John just shrugs.

“Did Rachel call you fat or something?”

Annoyed, “No.”

“You’re not fat, dude. You’re… stout…” Ian struggles with the words, trying to be honest, but not hurt his friend’s feelings.

“Thanks,” John replies curtly.

“What?” Ian asks.

John just drinks his beer, looking away and pretending to be hurt.

“C’mon man, what?”

Pushing his bottom lip out, John continues pouting.

Turning to Travis, Ian asks, “What’s up tonight?”

Travis sits up in his seat, suddenly excited, “You mean something’s actually going to happen tonight?”

Ian shrugs. “They’re havin’ another keg tonight,” he says, meaning his fraternity.

“Cool.”

“We could grab some free beer and then head downtown.”

“Let’s go to Lowrie’s.”

Ian and John both make faces.

“C’mon. It’s nickel night.”

Raising his eyebrows, Ian thinks about it. Nickel night usually proved to be fun. Lowrie’s was a dive bar. They cateredheld a monopoly on, actuallythe meat market in town. It was a kind of joke, too. When some poor soul who didn’t know his way around asked for directions to the nearest “happenin’ place,” they always got directions to Lowrie’s. Still though, on Thursday nights Lowrie’s sold everything for a nickel (with a five dollar cover charge). The basic object of nickel night (from the point of view of the attendants at any rate) was to drink enough to make-up for the cover, and then drink like a fish to see how good a deal you could get. The place usually packed it in on Thursday nights, especially when school was in session. The drinks were a nickel, but it took a half an hour to get one. Summer was different. If you got a table, or a booth preferably, the crowds of swingers were tolerable.

“C’mon, we haven’t done that in a while.” Travis enjoyed it the most of anyone in the pack. Of course, he was single, and though the women at Lowrie’s weren’t his type, it was fun to flirt and leer, or be leered at. John and Nick never felt quite the same. Ian, taken, could still sympathize.

“Let’s see what we all feel like later,” Ian offers in compromise.

“All right,” Travis says, leaning back. It was compromise enough to get them to think about it, and really he didn’t have his heart set on it anyway.

Looking at his empty can, John holds it up and looks to the other two. They’d finished smoking. “Ready?” he asks.

Travis and Ian reply by chugging the last of theirs and getting up to go. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out,” Travis calls as the three of them shuffle out of the room.

“Really?” Travis seems genuinely surprisedthe summer was always slow.

“Yep.” He speaks in his mile-a-minute style. “We had a bunch of people over here last night. I told a couple people that I could hook ‘em up, and before I knew it I was talking to a whole crowd.”

“Word spreads.”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t tell ‘em it was you, right?” Travis asks, a little wary.

“No! Of course not, dude. I’m in the know. I know a guy. That’s all, Vaquero.” Ian takes his clothes into the bathroom.

“Cool. Hey! You mind if I get a beer?” Travis calls into the bathroom.

“They’re in the fridgehelp yourselves,” Ian calls back.

“Fakes?” John asks.

“Huh?” asks Travis moving over to the mini refrigerator by the couch.

“Is that what he was selling?”

Setting the empty gin bottle on the top of the refrigerator, Travis just nods to John and peers inside. Sure enough, it is packed full of silver cans. Travis pulls out a beer and offers it to John who waves it off. Shutting the door he opens his can, doing some math in his head. Twenty times approximately fifty divided in two. “Twenty should set me straight for the month, dude!” he hollers at the bathroom door.

Coming back into the room in a red, blue and yellow Spanish soccer jersey and a pair of meticulously unkempt jeans, Ian remarks, “Yeah, and I could use it.”

John didn’t need a fake drivers licensehe was older than Ian and Travis by about two years, but says, “I might have some people who’d buy off you.”

“Cool,” says Ian.

“Can I get a cut?”

“Of course, dude. Totally.”

“Don’t tell ‘em who we are,” adds Travis.

John just makes a duh face.

“I just wanna’ be sure,” Travis says, sipping from his beer. “I got a right to be paranoid.”

“Say, does Rachel still have hers?” Ian asks.

“Yep. She uses it everywhere.”

;It’s everywhere you wanna’ be,” Travis adds with a big thumb’s up to Ian.

“We ready to go?” Ian asks.

“Nah. Le’me finish this,” Travis replies, sipping from his beer.

Ian nods and regards the refrigerator. “Four thirty? That’s late enough to start,” reaching for the door and pulling out two beers. Sitting down next to John, Ian hands him one. John regards it for a second, questioning whether he wants it, and then opens it. In unison, all three pull out cigarettes and pass John’s silver zippo around. “Did you see Rachel last night?” Ian asks.

John just rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his beer.

“He’s pissed off,” Travis offers.

Ian smiles and looks at John, “Is she cheating on you or anything?”

“No,” John answers, annoyed.

“Hello!” Travis calls across the room energetically, as though seeing John for the first time.

John looks on, perplexed.

“Hellooooooo!” Travis calls again.

“Hello,” John replies plainly, smiling a little.

“What do you think he would do if we just barged in there and started dancing around or something?” Travis proposes.

“I told you you were gay.”

“I’m not gay. I’m just bored.”

“That’s how people become gay,” John states.

“What? They get bored?”

“Yup.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s true. First you go gay, and then you start fucking animals.”

“Whatever. Who told you that?”

John shrugs.

“Gay people don’t fuck animals.”

“Not in the beginning they don’t.”

“Do you really think I’m gay?”

John nods seriously.

“Maybe I am…” Travis pauses to contemplate the thought. “Would you still love me if I was gay?”

“I don’t love you now.”

Travis looks on for a moment. “Seriously, would you still be my friend if I was gay?”

“You’re not gay.”

“You’re avoiding the question now.”

“There’s no sense in answering stupid questions.”

“C’mon—just answer the question.”

John shrugs again. “I’d make fun of you.”

Nodding approvingly, Travis lets the conversation end there.

Rather than move in with Nick, John, and Travis, though, Ian had opted to live at his other brotherhoods house: Tau Kappa Epsilonthe Tekes, as they were known. They had smart guys, big guys, little guys, fast guys; guys that werent geniuses but were good at heart, and guys that were brutes but clever. There were a few good ol boys thrown inthe kind that you cant not liketo spice up the stew. The Tekes were anything but a typical frat. They partied like all the other frats on the row, but they had a number of assets that set them apart. Ian was one of themat least in the minds of John and Travis, whod both been offered spots in the brotherhood. Probably, they were asked to pledge for no other reason than they were at the house as much as some of the older brothershanging out with Ian, generally wasting time and graciously partaking of the fraternitys alcohol supply. Both refused membership offers, pleading lacks of funds.

Walking in the back door of the house, John and Travis thread their way through an aftermath of some monstrous hive creature called a kegger. They shuffle past an empty ice machine and beer cans strewn across the floor, into the main television room, looking for occupants. Apparently no one was up yet. Despite the house’s exterior, that of a southern antebellum plantation home, the late twentieth century had been the interior decorator, filling rooms with salvation army furniture, televisions, a VCR and a pool table. Most of the house was as crumbling and peculiarly decorated as the vast majority of college student apartments in town. Travis and John make their way up a staircase that at one time must have been quite regal. Now the paint was peeling and the wide stairs made untrusting squeaks. At the top of the stairs was a small foyer containing a couch and four entrances to bedrooms. They approach the back corner door and knock hesitantly, then Travis pushes the door open to peer inside.

“Shit,” Collin says, “he found us.”

Sitting on the couch next to Steve, Nick says, “It’s not that—it’s just, like, I went to get a drink, and there’s some guy passed out on the stairs, and then I come back and you guys are gone.” Nick laughs, a little exasperated.

“Where you been?” asks Travis. “It couldn’t've taken you that long to find us here.”

“Oh, no, I was hangin’ out with… uh—you know—Beetlejuice.”

“Jackson,” says Ian.

“Yeah. Jackson,” Nick agrees.

“Ian, le’me have a beer,” Collin says.

Ian just gives Collin a look like, “What’re you gonna’ do about it?”

Getting up to go to the refrigerator, Collin asks, “Anybody else?”

“Yeah,” John says, and Collin tosses him one.

“I’m actually feelin’ just fine,” Travis says, dragging out “fine”.

“I tol’ ya’, right?” Steve says.

“Shit, man, this stuff is righteous,” Nick adds. “You should bottle it and sell it.”

“I still wanna’ know what the hell’s in this,” Travis says, but Steve just shakes his head, smiling flatly.

“We should do somethin’ stupid,” Collin says, sitting down again.

“Stoopid,” Nick adds in a Brooklyn accent.

“Stoopid,” Travis echoes, and they both laugh.

Collin looks at them for a moment, and then says, “What?” He doesn’t get the joke, but it’s just an old joke between Nick and Travis, a cartoon they adored, and they give no hint of explanation.

“What do you mean?” Ian asks Collin.

“I don’ know. Stupid. You can’t think of shit, you jus’ always end up doin’ it.”

“Stoopid,” Nick says again.

“Stoopid,” Travis repeats.

“What the fuck?” Collin asks, get a little irritated.

“Were you out with us for my birthday, when it snowed?” Nick asked seriously.

“No.”

“That was hilarious. Everybody was sledding on Clayton and making snow angels in the middle of the road. It started around one and there was inches on the ground when everybody came out after last call.”

“I remember that. Me and John were watchin’ people wreck their cars on Baxter.”

John starts laughing at the memory.

“Hey, yeah!” Nick says, “Why the hell weren’t you out with us on my birthday?”

Travis shrugs. “Didn’t have the magic card then.”

“Oh, right.”

“You remember that, though?” Travis asks John, who just rubs his eyes and smiles. “You know that hill, right by the dorms?” Travis asks Collin.

“Yeah.”

“Me and John were on the Blue Monkey’s porch, just standin’ there watchin’ while people came over that hill at, like, what?—forty-five miles an hour? There were, like, five cars in a row smashed into each other right there in front of us. And the owners were just standin’ there on the sidewalk screamin’ at whoever came over the hill and smashed into their cars. People on the porch would applaud them when they got out of their cars. Humiliating.”

“Shit,” Collin snorts.

“It was ridiculous,” Travis agreed.

“People here don’t know how to drive in the snow,” Ian says.

“Ya’ll don’t know how to drive, period,” replies Collin—insinuating politely that Ian’s a Yankee. Everyone in the room seems to agree with these two points. People down South drove obliviously, and people up North drove rudely. Big difference, of course.

“See, that’s what I mean, though,” Collin says, shaking his head.

“What?” Ian asks.

“Jus’ stupid shit.”

“Stoopid,” Nick says.

“Stoopid,” Travis repeats.

“Stoopid,” Collin says.

“I’m sure Lisa believes you, too,” comes Travis’ sarcastic reply.

“Yeah, well,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “What’re you guys doin’ tomorrow?” he asks Collin and Steve, changing the subject as they get to the top of the stairs.

The two shrug.

“Come to John’s band’s show tomorrow night.”

“Right on.” Collin says. “Who’re you playin’ with?”

“Homespun Noose,” John replies.

“Cool.”

Steve interjects, “You should play at the ‘ouse.”

“Yeah?” John asks.

“Hell, we’ll pay ya’,” Collin offers.

“Damn. I think we can work that,” John replies.

Collin playfully hits John in the chest, “That, and give you all the liquor you can drink.”

John just laughs, “That cannot be my only pay.”

“You too,” Collin says to Travis as he comes to the top of the stairs.

“What?” Travis asks.

They all walk into Ian’s room and sit down as Travis opens up all the windows. “Play at the house,” Collin offers.

“Ah,” Travis says, dismissing it. “It’s not house-party stuff.”

“So?” Collin replies. “Just chill out and play in the front room. Shit, no one’ll mind if it’s not loud.”

Shrugging, Travis replies, “All right.”

“And it wouldn’t kill you to play some Dave Matthews covers,” Collin adds.

“Or Tears for Fear.”

“Or maybe not.”

“Yeah.”

Sitting in an arm chair between the couches, opposite the door, Ian says, “You guys really should. It’d be a great way to get your names around town.”

John and Travis both nod.

Excited, Collin adds, “You guys play and Ian’ll, like, take photos and shit, and Nick can paint somethin’ weird.” Then a little sullenly, he adds, “I’ll just sit there and point and laugh or somethin’. I can’t do shit.”

“That’s not true,” Travis argues.

“Naw. Like, someday I’ll write a book about all this shit. It’ll be fucked up like Vonnegut or somethin’.”

“You like Vonnegut?” John asks.

“Dude, his shit’s hilarious. Have you ever read Breakfast of Champions?”

John shakes his head.

“Like, there’s this part where the main guy is tryin’ to explain what an asshole is, and there’s just this star on the page that he drew, and it says, like, ‘this is an asshole’.”

“I remember that part,” says Travis, chuckling.

“Have you read it?” Collin asks.

“A while ago. I’m not big on Vonnegut, though.”

“Fuck you. You’re like all intellectual and shit. Your songs are all, like, deep and shit,” Collin says, smiling. “Intelligentsia—that’s what you are, fucker.”

Travis laughs in agreement, drinking his Jungle Juice.

“Naw,” Collin continues, “it’s good. I jus’ didn’t get it. I had to get Jamie to explain it to me.”

Travis just laughs again. Collin was kidding. Chances were, Collin was as or more literate than anyone in the room, but he played it off like he wasn’t.

“You need to get some girls,” Steve says to John, meaning John’s band. “You got any groupies, yet?”

“Just my girlfriend and Eric’s; and mine’s not really that much of a groupie,” John says.

“You guys play and we’ll invite the DZ’s over or somethin’. They’ll be fuckin’ you on stage and shit,” Collin added. “Buncha’ whores.”

“Really?” Travis asks. The DZ’s lived in the house next door.

“Dude,” Ian says, sitting up, “I was drivin’ up here, and a bunch of ‘em were yelling out the window at me and Derek. What’s up with that?”

“Aw, like, Noles and Copper were out on the beach a week ago, throwin’ shit at their house and yellin’ at ‘em,” Collin replies. “The Beach” was the south porch roof on the house, facing the DZ’s house.

“Damn, man, they were yellin’ some lewd shit at us,” Ian says, “I wonder what the hell Noles and Copper said?”

“Who knows,” Collin replies, snorting. “Prob’ly called ‘em whores. They gotta’ get all upset like they ain’t what they are.”

Everybody laughs at this.

“Are they really that bad?” Travis asks.

“Not ta’ us,” Collin replies. “They just hate us, but I’ve heard shit.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, some of my friends over in Sigma Delta said they get raunchy at some of their socials.”

“What a horrible, horrible thing,” Travis says, feigning indignation.

“Oh, I don’ give a shit what they do,” answers Collin, “They just need ta be doin’ it ta us.”

“That’s the crux of the problem,” adds Ian.

Ian and Travis look at each other with a nervous laugh before dipping their cups in the cooler. Each tastes their drink in unison, eyeing each other, making sure the other isn’t copping out.

“Damn that’s smooth,” says Ian, licking his lips.

“What’s in it?” Travis asks.

“Buncha’ stuff,” Steve replies cryptically. “It’ll getya’ drunk,” he says, refilling his own glass.

The threesome make their way back down the hall and down the stairs to the basement. When they get back to the group, Nick asks indignantly, “Where’d you get that?”

“You know whe’ the bathroom on the back ‘all is?” Steve asks.

“Nope.”

“Go up those back stai’s, and all the way down the ‘all at the top to the bathroom. It’s in a cooler on the sink. ‘Elp yu’self—there’s a ton.”

“Cool,” Nick replies. Turning to John, he asks, “You want some?”

John shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“C’mon,” Ian says to everyone as Nick walks off to the back hall, “let’s go up to my room and blast some tunes.”

Daphne replies, “Actually, I need to get going.”

“Aw,” Ian replies, disappointed. “You all right to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Turning to Kristin, she asks, “You want a ride?”

“Yeah. I better go too.”

Kristin and Daphne hug Ian and Travis in turns.

“Good night,” Dizzy says to Travis.

“Drive safe, darlin’,” Travis replies.

“Hey,” Ian calls after them, “come to John’s show tomorrow.”

“What time?” Kristin asked.

“Ten-thirty.”

“Okay.”

“G’night ya’ll,” Dizzy says again as she and Kristin leave.

Collin, Travis, Steve, Ian, and John make their way out the side door of the basement, and up the stairs to Ian’s room. Collin elbows Ian on the way up.

“What?” Ian asks.

“What?” Collin mocks. “You know what.”

“Kristin?”

“See. I tol’ ya’ you knew,” Collin says with a smile.

“She’s cute as hell, isn’t she?”

“Does Lisa know?” Collin asks.

“Oh, dude, there’s nothin’ to worry about. Kristin and I are totally platonic.”

“I’m sure Lisa believes you, too.”

The boys all say their hellos, and Ian steps up to introduce Kristin and Daphne. Collin shakes hands with both of them, charmed, commenting that he knows Kristin from Mean Mike’s.

“Nice ta meetcha’,” he says to Daphne.

“And do you know Nick?” asks Ian.

“Yeah,” Collin says, shaking Nick’s hand. “You did those fucked up paintings, right?”

Nick nods.

“I saw ‘em at a party at your place once. I love those, man.”

“Thanks.”

“Everything’s all bent up and shit. You musta’ been high when you did those.”

“No, but that’s what everybody says, so…”

“Well, c’mon in ya’ll. They’re still playin’ Baghdad in the basement. Grab some beers.”

Everyone makes their way to the basement in a crowd. Collin turns to Travis, “Hey man, I didn’t get to tell ya’, like, I dug your show.”

“Yeah,” Travis replies. “I saw you. I meant to thank you for comin’.”

“Me and Jamie had to go meet some people right before you were done. We scootched out pretty fast.”

“That’s cool.”

“When’re you playin’ again?”

“I don’t know yet, actually.”

“Well, let me know. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate that.”

“Yeah. I tol’ Jamie I thought you sounded like Bruce Springsteen or somethin’.”

Travis raises his eyebrows in disbelief. It was a hell of a compliment. “Thanks,” he says, a little breathlessly.

“But like, you need ta chill out—take your time. You seemed like you were in a hurry.”

“I was pretty nervous for some reason,” Travis agrees.

“That wasn’t your first show, was it?”

“No. Not by a long shot. But every now and then it just hits me—new material maybe.”

“You jus’ need ta drink some beer before you go on,” Collin says, laughing and patting Travis on the back.

“Yeah—like a six pack,” Travis says, rubbing the back of his neck, remembering just how jittery he was that night.

They all get to the basement and pass around beers from out of a cooler. Fraternity brothers, and their dates, and a few other party-goers are spread out all through the basement, centered around three ping-pong tables. The tables are covered with paper cups filled with beer. As the opponents sink ping-pong balls into each other’s cups, the defeated have to drink whatever cup is hit.

Everyone is settled into a small crowd with their beers, and a tall, thin man with large eyes and a shaved head walks up to Ian and Travis with a huge plastic cup in his hand. In a light Austrailian accent, he pronounces, “Don’t drink that shit.”

“Hey, Steve, what’s goin’ on?” Ian replies.

“You got somethin’ better, I take it?” Travis asks.

“C’mon,” Steve says, indicating with a jerk of his head for them both to follow. Turning to check on everyone, Travis looks over to his friends. Dizzy and Kristin are laughing at Collin’s antics. He is an incredible flirt—good ol’ boy charm mixed with a wit that catches people off guard. Nick and John are discussing something. Turning back around, Travis catches up to Ian and Steve who are already making their way across the basement to the back hall stairs. Walking up the flight of stairs they all chuckle as they pass one of the younger brothers who is passed out on the landing. “He’s ‘ad too much,” Steve said flatly, his accent making the statement all the more hilarious. When they get to the top of the stairs, Steve asks Ian and Travis, “Why ar’ American bea’ and ‘aving sex in a canoe the same?”

Ian and Travis just shrug, following Steve down the hall at the top of the stairs.

“They’re both too fuckin’ close to wata’,” he said with a smile in his eyes, and a wry grin.