The Drip, Chapter 2

Johnny pulled into his driveway. He sighed because he wasn’t really in the mood for this right now.

“See ya,” Alison said with a smile. She must not be mad, he thought.

“Burger tonight?”

“We’ll see,” she winked. They’d meet at Matty’s bar, he new that, and they’d not get that burger. That would be too much like an honest-to-goodness date. They weren’t there yet. Or at least he thought so.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Johnny said to Alison as she started off in the other direction. “Why you running away sweet thing?”

She turned, still jogging, and flipped him off.

“Why is your broad so mean to me?” Johnny asked, looking at her ass as she jogged away. His sunglasses were down on the edge of his nose. Not expensive ones, instead, more like the cheap one’s you get in a tourist trap surf shop in Myrtle Beach, complete with the neon sides. Johnny slapped him on the back and let out a hearty chuckle, definitely happy with himself at the moment.

“You’re a douche,” he replied.

“Man, it’s no wonder you have no friends.”

“I am what I am.”

“Fuck that Popeye shit, man,” Johnny said, reaching into his front shirt pocket. “You mind if I smoke up?”

“Nah,” he said, but Johnny had already struck a match and began a puff. He thought it would be nice to catch a little bit of a buzz before the day got a little more involved.

Johnny took a long drag on the joint, sat there for a long while, then finally exhaled the beautifully pungent smoke from his shit. Johnny always had good shit, he gave him that much credit. Johnny repeated this five times. Never offering once.

“Man, I need some advice,” Johnny said, bleary-eyed.

“I’m all ears, ya douche bag,” he said, leaning back into his recliner resigned to not getting any of the good shit. He took a sip on his Shiner that had been sitting out a little too long. It was warm. But, still tasted the same. Like soap water. From the first time he’d had one all those years ago because a girl said it was the only beer she’d drink. It eventually grew on him. She started drinking Michelob Ultras while away in Florida. It should have been a sign.

“I got another bitch pregnant,” Johnny said absent-mindedly, as if he really didn’t give a shit. However, he could tell Johnny was trying to sound that way. So it made it sound even more desperate.

He sighed. This wasn’t what he was expecting. He was hoping for a traffic ticket or something. Maybe an STD. This guy, he’s dumb as a bag of hammers, and he gets laid all the time. Everyone knows he’s got eight frigging kids already. But they also know he’s loaded. He never wears a rubber, and now is apparently about to have his ninth and tenth kids. Johnny’s 27 and has had kids with five different women now. He thought to himself about when he was 27. He’d had sex with four woman at that point. Total.

“Who’d ya go and knock up this time John Boy?” he said.

“That skinny blond at the corner of General Pershing, man. She is so cute.”

“Wear a fucking rubber, dude. Wear a fucking rubber.”

“That advise shoulda come last month, man,” JOhnny said. “But seriously, I need some advise about this one.”

Johnny sounded serious. A rarity.

“Have at it kid,” he said.

“I’m not a kid.”

He always called youngsters kids. Alison pointed this out to him one night at the bar. She thought it was funny that he called 15 year olds, 25 year olds and 35 year olds kids. It was a habit he picked up working at small newspapers. He always seemed to be one of the old guys. It’s why so many of his friends are all younger than he. Hell, he’d never had sex with anyone younger than 28 before he turned 40. Funny world.

“Anyway,” he said, pausing to hopefully elicit the continuing of this session. It didn’t work.

“Dude, what’s your fucking question?” he said, finally, too exasperated from watching him smoke up and not share, all the while trying to get advice out of him on a beautiful fucking day in paradise. Hell, he had some writing to do. Especially since Johnny chased Alison away.

“Let me finish this j, man,” Johnny said. He took one last hit off the tiny roach, looking at it, then at George. A look of horror came over him.

“Shit, I didn’t offer you any,” Johnny said.

“Never mind it,” he said.

“After a few seconds past, finally Johnny started to talking. Johnny explained to him that over the last month, Johnny’d stopped hitting on other women. Was always thinking about the Pershing blonde, as Johnny called her. But she never returned his phone calls anymore. Until she broke the news about being preggo.

“I think I love this one,” Johnny finally finished with. “But she wants an abortion, man. How can I stop her?”

Now, this he didn’t’ expect. If Johnny knew his history, he’d never as this question of him. But no one knew his history. Except for him.

“Why do you think you love her?” he finally asked.

“She’s so beautiful. So funny. So everything.”

“And you met her how?”

“Drunkenly at Matty’s, I was on fire at darts and she came up to me real strong.”

“Were you flashing bills?”

“Of course.”

“Did you tell her about your trust fund?”

“No.”

“You know, she’s a hooker.”

“Fuck you, man!”

“She is.”

“You don’t fucking mean that!”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t’ fucking know that!” he was getting mad. What I said next, made him madder.

“Yes, actually, I do know.”

The pupils in his eyes shank to nothing. Johnny got up, flicked his roach at him and stomped off.”

“Maybe you can change her? Like Christian Slater or Richard Gere?” He regretted saying that as soon as Christian came out of his mouth. But it kept coming no matter.

Johnny looked at him. An evil look, really. Chills raced up his spine.

“I’ll show you,” Johnny said, struggling to open the door of his El Camino. Finally, he slung it open and jumped in, gunning the engine before the door even closed. Robert Palmer’s sweet voice rang out as he pulled away in a puff of smoke and burnt rubber.

Ha. Rubber, he thought. Finishing the rest of his Shiner.

the drip, chapter 1

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Water trickles down from the roof. A grove in the concrete has formed where those drops have, for years, pounded down on the same spot. A constant of the world.

He sits in his chair watching this. He does this a lot. The thought pops into his head “how long has it been doing this?”

Sitting in his beat up recliner -- not a La Z Boy, but a thrift store purchased faux-leather knockoff -- he’s stared out at the world from this stoop for years now. And he can’t remember when the drip started.

It wasn’t there at first, he thinks. He can definitely picture the view without the hole in the concrete. And without the pitter pattering of the drips against it. He’ll ask his buddy Fred the next time he visits. He usually visits on Thursdays. Hell, who is he kidding, he always visits on Thursdays. Today’s Wednesday.

“How’m I gonna remember to ask ‘im?” he wonders. Soon his thoughts wander to another spot in his stoop view.

A woman saunters by. She’s wearing an ugly visor on her head. One of those things you used to get for free at a casino, at least in the 1970s or early 80s. He can’t remember the last time he was in a casino. Well, one in Vegas or AC. He visit’s the Indian ones quite often now. Well, every time he’s got an extra buck or two and an itch for free, but shitty, well drinks delivered by slightly passed their prime waitresses. A great thing for someone also slightly beyond his prime. That damn visor has a reflective patch on the top of the front. And a view of some kind of wild west scene. Awful. Just awful. His gaze then moves downward to the butt. Always does. You have to stop staring at that damn visor. It aggravates. Her butt? It doesn’t. She’s wearing tight, light blue sweatpants.

He smiles as he watches her cheeks bounce up, then down. Her walk is still sexy, even with that damn visor.

“Hi, George!” she says. It startles him a little. He blushes. Busted again. “Looking at my butt again, huh?”

“You betcha, babe,” he says with a wink of his right eye. His daddy told him to always wink with the right eye when flirting. “Science backs me up on this, George,” he’d say with a guffaw. It hadn’t done him wrong in all these years, so why mess with what works.

She stops at his gate door. Unlatches the hook. Comes into his yard. She steps over an old croquet mallet and the red ball. There aren’t any wire wickets to be found. There is one stake still dug into the earth, albeit it’s a bit crooked now, and chewed upon a little by the squirrels that he feeds pizza in the afternoons sometimes.

“When are we going to get that cheeseburger?” she exclaimed, flashing her too-perfect teeth. It’s the only thing about her that he doesn’t like. Well, other than that damn visor. Those teeth. Dad also said never trust anyone with perfect teeth. “They have something to hide,” he’d say. It stuck, too. His teeth are weathered, chipped and ugly. Not that he wanted to have knarly teeth, it just happened that way. Too many Mountain Dews as a kid. Too many nights passing out without brushing them as an adult. The teeth of a meth addict, his dentist told him not too long ago when he finally went to see him after over 20 years avoiding it.

“Cheeseburger?” he asked with a wry smile.

“We made a bet. You lost. Pay up you cheap bastard.” She said that with her hands on her hips, pouting just the perfect amount. Damn she was beautiful. Even with that visor on.

He smiled. They were at the bar not too long ago. Him, Fred and Alison. After a few drinks, the subject of dollar bills came up. He was positive all dollar bills had presidents on them. She said no. This made him even more adamant about it. A true sign of weakness, his daddy told him, was not standing firm when you believe in something. It didn’t always work out, but confidence was alluring, he said. Fred, he just shook his head in amusement. The way he always did when him and Alison got going on one of their tangents. Sometimes they went on for hours. Fred was just along for the ride most of the times. And he usually got his beers paid for, so it wasn’t a problem. A bet was finally made -- the loser takes the winner out for a cheeseburger dinner at Bud’s Broiler. Well, at least a cheeseburger.

The bartender -- Matty -- was summoned. Matty once won $30,017 on Jeopardy. He was the definitive answer to any query in his bar that he bought with that cash. The bar’s Wiki page. Even if his answer was wrong, you believed him.

He had been listening to him and Alison’s banter. He did this most nights. They were regulars. Hell, they were friends. He walked over, spitting into the sink by their normal barstools.

“All the dollar bills have presidents on them, right Matty?” he slurred.

Matty went to his register. Clicked some keys on his turn of the century monstrosity with his free hand -- the other held a dirty mug -- and with a cha-ching, the money drawer popped out. He flicked some bills around, pulling out just one.

“Alexander Hamilton. Ten-dollar bill,” Matty said.

“You owe me one cheeseburger!” Alison roared.

“Grumble, grumble, grouse,” he replied, taking one long swig of beer, finishing off his bottle of Abita S.O.S.

“Hey, you want to go get it now,” he said to her as she stood there, sweaty and wearing that damn ugly visor. Which now was reflecting the mid-day sun directly into his face. “And why do you keep wearing that damn visor?”

She stared at him. Obviously, he’d hurt her feelings.

“Some other time, George,” she frowned.

At that moment, a brown El Camino drove up. Blasting from the speakers was “Some Guys Have All the Luck.” Not the shitty Rod Stewart version, but the slick Robert Palmer one. He knew who it was -- Johnny Two Kids. They called him that because every girl he got pregnant -- and there were four of them -- had twins. He drove around town in that pristine El Camino with that same song playing all the time. He was a trust fund baby, so he didn’t work. Didn’t do much, apparently. He’d heard that he tried his hand at betting the ponies and the hounds for a while, but his lawyer convinced him it wasn’t a good idea.