After getting kicked out of our friends dorm room, we decided wed hit up one of our usual drinkin spots: an abandoned train station up in the mountains. It was dark and cold, the middle of February; Friday night, the night all interesting things happen.
Walking along the old train tracks with my two friends, I surveyed our current situation. It had been a rough week at school; my lip piercing seemed to be migrating out of my lip; my boots were worn flat we had every excuse for some fun ol binge drinking. Zach rolled an old worn tire, which would be our source of light and heat. Isaac carried a case of beer. I had my current cheap liquor of choice, brutal Bankers Club vodka. Bare, wintered trees flanked both sides of the train tracks, and a light layer of muddy snow covered the ground. It was cold, but soon wed be drunk and oblivious.
Nobody was at the station, which was sort of weird for a Friday night. I didnt mind because this meant I could talk shit about anyone not there. Zach tapped my shoulder and pointed at a silhouette near the station: a dog. A shaggy, filthy dog. It looked like it was chilling out, moseying about like the dumb animal it was.
I hate dogs, I muttered.
Several years previously, while walking back from our ice skating pond, I had been bitten by a stray dog without provocation. Had to get rabies shots. Wasnt too happy about that. Ever since Id been nervous around all dogs, and they always seemed to react negatively to this.
I bit a cuticle, took a swig of vodka, and told Isaac to chase it away or something. Isaac walked up to the dog, maybe twenty feet away. He made a sudden move at the dog and it bolted straight for me. Freaking, I kicked the dog as it got close to me, and it responded by biting my shin. Zach managed to scare it off, and it ran down the tracks, away from us. My leg was cut, but at that point, Id be damned if I wasnt going to get completely wasted. I used a shirt in my backpack to tie up the cut, which Id later find out was pretty substantial. The hospital would still be there in the morning.
We set up the fire by the tracks and started drinking. I teetered back and forth on the side rail of the train tracks, my leg numb from pain-relieving alcohol and Xanax. Every once and a while, a bottle tossed by one of my buds would crash behind me into a ten foot ravine a couple feet behind me, which served as our universal bottle dump. Maybe an hour into our session, we saw some figures walking down the tracks towards us. Probably more kids like us.
White man! I heard someone call out. I looked to see who was yelling my name. Ah, it was Jill, trailed by her current boyfriend. Why did she sound so angry, and why did he look so pissed.
I hear youve been talking about me, she said. Her boyfriend struck a tough guy pose and looked at me with a cavemans thick brow and a none-too-pleasant grimace drooping on his meaty head.
I though for a moment. What had I been saying about this particular gal. I went through the rolodex of shit I had recently started with people and pulled out her card. Oh, yes. I had started a rumor about her having Chlamydia. I dont remember the exact reasons why I did this. Maybe she did something to me, or maybe I just thought it would be amusing. Who doesn't love a good, potentially reputation-staining VD rumor?
This delicate situation would take diplomacy to get out of without a severe ass-beating. I took a swig of vodka and carefully assessed my arsenal. Zach and Isaac watched nervously, and the seconds ticked. They wouldnt be much good in a fight. I looked at Jill as she awaited a response. I noticed a big, shiny ring on her finger. I looked at her meatbag boyfriend itching to kick my spiky-haired ass. I responded the only way I knew how.
I looked at her boyfriend, pointed at the ring on Jills hand. In a move as calculated and amazing as Bobby Fischers emergence from a draw to humiliate Boris Spassky, I played my gambit: Chlamydia or not, why dont you just fuck her. Shes already paid for, apparently.
The chain of events after my attack is foggy. The least I could say for certain is that this is not the sort of cocky and funny that Cubsfan uses to win over the ladies. Zach did a spit take. Isaacs mouth dropped open. Meatbag caveman boyfriend probably made some sort of grunting noise. Some people there say that Jill rushed up and pushed me, or punched me. She claims to this day that she just ran at me and I spazzed out.
Either way, I ended up falling backwards, my bald boots causing me to slip off my metal perch, tumbling down into our garbage pit. My decidedly non-feline-like dexterity kicked immediately into effect, and I took the fall like Ive taken every fall in my life: by bouncing on my head. I dont remember the actual fall, but I imagine it wasnt very fun to Iggy Pop-dive into a pit filled with the broken glass of many years past.
Well, one of my friends drove me to the ER. It was like 2 in the morning, and it looked like Id just played chicken with a windshield (which I wouldnt actually do until some years later). My lip ring had been torn out in the fall, and it had smashed a bit of one of my teeth. I think I may have actually swallowed the ring. Cuts covered my body, and my clothes were torn in several places. I was drunk, confused, and buzzed off the potent cocktail of booze, Buspar, and Xanax.
The ER doctor looked at me. Id been holding that vodka bottle when I fell. I probably smelled like Boris Yeltsin.
What happened? he asked.
What to say? Oh, I was just eating lots of pills, drinking, and then I suffered the wrath of an acquaintance whom I spread VD rumors about. Yeah, that wouldve been a great answer. I once again went back into my brain, which had already served me well enough on that night. I needed something to say; a story that would make this doctor think I wasnt a total degenerate. My mouth was filled with blood, gravel, and dirt. My fingers tapped the examination table I sat on, nervously. Playing with the chess pieces in my head seemed to do no good; I needed a response, and fast. I opened my mouth and spat out the convenient non-fiction that would hopefully save me:
A, uh, dog bit me?
Yeah, so I hear Bobby Fischers had a few off days, too.
Walking along the old train tracks with my two friends, I surveyed our current situation. It had been a rough week at school; my lip piercing seemed to be migrating out of my lip; my boots were worn flat we had every excuse for some fun ol binge drinking. Zach rolled an old worn tire, which would be our source of light and heat. Isaac carried a case of beer. I had my current cheap liquor of choice, brutal Bankers Club vodka. Bare, wintered trees flanked both sides of the train tracks, and a light layer of muddy snow covered the ground. It was cold, but soon wed be drunk and oblivious.
Nobody was at the station, which was sort of weird for a Friday night. I didnt mind because this meant I could talk shit about anyone not there. Zach tapped my shoulder and pointed at a silhouette near the station: a dog. A shaggy, filthy dog. It looked like it was chilling out, moseying about like the dumb animal it was.
I hate dogs, I muttered.
Several years previously, while walking back from our ice skating pond, I had been bitten by a stray dog without provocation. Had to get rabies shots. Wasnt too happy about that. Ever since Id been nervous around all dogs, and they always seemed to react negatively to this.
I bit a cuticle, took a swig of vodka, and told Isaac to chase it away or something. Isaac walked up to the dog, maybe twenty feet away. He made a sudden move at the dog and it bolted straight for me. Freaking, I kicked the dog as it got close to me, and it responded by biting my shin. Zach managed to scare it off, and it ran down the tracks, away from us. My leg was cut, but at that point, Id be damned if I wasnt going to get completely wasted. I used a shirt in my backpack to tie up the cut, which Id later find out was pretty substantial. The hospital would still be there in the morning.
We set up the fire by the tracks and started drinking. I teetered back and forth on the side rail of the train tracks, my leg numb from pain-relieving alcohol and Xanax. Every once and a while, a bottle tossed by one of my buds would crash behind me into a ten foot ravine a couple feet behind me, which served as our universal bottle dump. Maybe an hour into our session, we saw some figures walking down the tracks towards us. Probably more kids like us.
White man! I heard someone call out. I looked to see who was yelling my name. Ah, it was Jill, trailed by her current boyfriend. Why did she sound so angry, and why did he look so pissed.
I hear youve been talking about me, she said. Her boyfriend struck a tough guy pose and looked at me with a cavemans thick brow and a none-too-pleasant grimace drooping on his meaty head.
I though for a moment. What had I been saying about this particular gal. I went through the rolodex of shit I had recently started with people and pulled out her card. Oh, yes. I had started a rumor about her having Chlamydia. I dont remember the exact reasons why I did this. Maybe she did something to me, or maybe I just thought it would be amusing. Who doesn't love a good, potentially reputation-staining VD rumor?
This delicate situation would take diplomacy to get out of without a severe ass-beating. I took a swig of vodka and carefully assessed my arsenal. Zach and Isaac watched nervously, and the seconds ticked. They wouldnt be much good in a fight. I looked at Jill as she awaited a response. I noticed a big, shiny ring on her finger. I looked at her meatbag boyfriend itching to kick my spiky-haired ass. I responded the only way I knew how.
I looked at her boyfriend, pointed at the ring on Jills hand. In a move as calculated and amazing as Bobby Fischers emergence from a draw to humiliate Boris Spassky, I played my gambit: Chlamydia or not, why dont you just fuck her. Shes already paid for, apparently.
The chain of events after my attack is foggy. The least I could say for certain is that this is not the sort of cocky and funny that Cubsfan uses to win over the ladies. Zach did a spit take. Isaacs mouth dropped open. Meatbag caveman boyfriend probably made some sort of grunting noise. Some people there say that Jill rushed up and pushed me, or punched me. She claims to this day that she just ran at me and I spazzed out.
Either way, I ended up falling backwards, my bald boots causing me to slip off my metal perch, tumbling down into our garbage pit. My decidedly non-feline-like dexterity kicked immediately into effect, and I took the fall like Ive taken every fall in my life: by bouncing on my head. I dont remember the actual fall, but I imagine it wasnt very fun to Iggy Pop-dive into a pit filled with the broken glass of many years past.
Well, one of my friends drove me to the ER. It was like 2 in the morning, and it looked like Id just played chicken with a windshield (which I wouldnt actually do until some years later). My lip ring had been torn out in the fall, and it had smashed a bit of one of my teeth. I think I may have actually swallowed the ring. Cuts covered my body, and my clothes were torn in several places. I was drunk, confused, and buzzed off the potent cocktail of booze, Buspar, and Xanax.
The ER doctor looked at me. Id been holding that vodka bottle when I fell. I probably smelled like Boris Yeltsin.
What happened? he asked.
What to say? Oh, I was just eating lots of pills, drinking, and then I suffered the wrath of an acquaintance whom I spread VD rumors about. Yeah, that wouldve been a great answer. I once again went back into my brain, which had already served me well enough on that night. I needed something to say; a story that would make this doctor think I wasnt a total degenerate. My mouth was filled with blood, gravel, and dirt. My fingers tapped the examination table I sat on, nervously. Playing with the chess pieces in my head seemed to do no good; I needed a response, and fast. I opened my mouth and spat out the convenient non-fiction that would hopefully save me:
A, uh, dog bit me?
Yeah, so I hear Bobby Fischers had a few off days, too.