by M. Billiter
With so many different voices going on all at once, it was like having schizophrenia. I choked down my laughter. It was just what I did in stressful situations, make stupid, inappropriate jokes.
“You a Trump supporter, aren’t you?” the first man asked again.
“Whatever, man, I’ve gotta go.” I tried to push past the circle I felt enclosed in.
“Make America Great Again,” the guy called out.
I finally raised my voice, which seemed to get their attention. “Guys, I don’t have time for this.”
I broke free and stood on the curb, hoping like hell Caleb and Mike wouldn’t keep me waiting.
Within minutes, a black Subaru pulled alongside me.
“You getting heckled by the homeless?” Caleb asked, and I laughed.
I threw my bag in the back seat and slid in behind Big Mike. He was called that not because he was fat but because he was fucking muscular as hell. When he turned around in the passenger seat, the weight in the car shifted. The guy’s a beast.
“Bet you don’t have a lot of homeless in Toledo,” he said.
“I dunno. I don’t leave campus much. But for real, like my biggest fear is being in a poor part of town, surrounded by black people, in a city I don’t know.” I paused, thinking it over. “So, yeah, my biggest fear just realized.”
“Black people? What the fuck, Aaron?” Caleb said.
“Listen, guys, I grew up in Wyoming where there’s no diversity. I never saw a black person, didn’t really know about LGBTQ, nor did I ever hear varying opinions or ideologies on anything. I grew up in a small town surrounded by small white people. I’m afraid of cities, public transportation, and homeless people,” I explained. “It’s like I’m afraid of diversity because I was raised in such a red, racist state.” Again I paused and thought about what I was saying. “Okay, maybe I’m not a racist in the traditional sense. I’m more like an accidental racist.”
They both laughed.
“I’ll tell you this, though,” I said, “I won’t raise my kids in Wyoming.”
“Why? I thought Wyoming was great,” Mike said.
“Sure, if you want to raise a conservative racist who’s afraid of cities and people of color, then Wyoming’s your place.”
“Ah, shit, every place has issues,” Caleb cut in.
“True.” I leaned forward. “But there’s nothing for me in Wyoming anymore.”
“What about your twin brother?” Mike asked. “Branson, right?”
“Yeah, good memory. Bran’s going into forestry with the national parks. He can work anywhere. We both want to put Wyoming in our rearview and never look back.”
“Understood, man, understood,” Caleb said.
Mike turned toward Caleb and then me. “It smells like weed.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s me.” I fanned the collar of my shirt, but if anything it just wafted the skunky smell of weed around the car.
“You smoking? No way.” Caleb stared at me in the rearview mirror. “In Jordon you were the purest. You wouldn’t smoke pot, hashish, or do anything. All you did was drink.”
“Yeah, and you and Mike ruined me,” I said. “Plus, you told me enough times that I was the nicest guy in the world. Like the nicest guy you’d both ever met. I don’t know if I believe that, but it’s what you said.”
“So what does that have to do with smoking weed?” Caleb asked.
“After hearing that shit for an entire semester, I felt like some pussy. When I transferred from Wyoming to Ohio, I decided it needed to be more than a geographical change. It needed to be a state of mind.” I raised my fingers in the peace sign like a stoner on a good trip.
Again they laughed.
“But really? Pot? Is that your new state of mind?” Caleb asked.
“Shit. Like you don’t smoke,” I countered.
“I cut down.”
I scoffed, and Mike turned around to look at me. “No, really, he has. The pot was really messing with his thinking.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay.”
“Legit. The last time I got really stoned, I thought Mike was trying to steal something from me and I went after him,” Caleb said. “It was intense. It was like I became someone else.”
“Well, I don’t know what the fuck you’re smoking, but pot hasn’t done anything like that to me, so stop killing my buzz,” I told him. “Besides, getting high was the only way I made it through that fucked-up bus ride.”
When neither of them said anything, I hit the back of Mike’s seat. “So, Hallo-weekend, brother!”
“Get ready for crazy,” Mike said.
“Already there.”
* * *
The music from the house party was nightclub loud. It was also so dark that I kept bumping into people.
"You get used to it," Caleb said.
Our white T-shirts practically glowed in the living room. The neon green stenciling didn’t hurt either. Since my chest announced that I was Lime, I stood beside Caleb, who was Tequila, and Big Mike, who was Salt. Together we were a tequila shot.
Big Mike looked dope with a shirt that barely fit him. What a monster. But Caleb was a goddamn stud with GQ-like modeling skills that he used when the hostess of the house party snapped our picture with an instant camera.
“Tequila shots never looked so good,” she said with a saucy wink while she fanned the pic.
“Shake it like a Polaroid,” Mike said, which was lame as hell but seemed to work on the hostess, who was dressed like a Starbucks coffee. She even had a hat with a green straw, which was pretty damn funny.
Everyone at the party looked like they belonged in an Abercrombie & Fitch commercial. They were ridiculously hot, and the party atmosphere had this intense, high-energy that kept everyone in a heightened state. Or maybe it was the drugs. There was enough weed, Oxy, and Adderall to fill the football stadium.
We quenched anyone and everyone’s thirst with shots. I squeezed lime into any open mouth that approached me, Caleb filled the shot glass, which he handed out like candy, and Big Mike poured salt on his arm that girls lined up to lick. Together we were unstoppable. For every shot Mike poured for a girl, he poured one for me.
Before I knew it, I was drunk off my ass. When we discovered there was a pony keg upstairs, Caleb and I headed to the second-floor balcony. I started tapping it and it sounded full, but I had to be sure, so I lifted it.
“Fuck.” I set it down. “That’s got like three-fourths left. It’s still heavy.”
“Cool” was all Caleb said.
“Listen, man, I’m going to steal it,” I told him.
“What?”
“I’m going to put the keg on the railing and pretend like it fell over while I was getting a drink.”
The plan made perfect sense both in my head and when I shared it with Caleb, who nodded like I had just hatched the best idea ever. I checked to make sure I wouldn’t hit anyone, then hefted the keg to the edge of the white railing, but instead of acting like I was pumping the keg like I’d planned, I just pushed it over the side. It fell hard and loud.
Caleb and I burst out laughing. We peered over the ledge and saw the pony keg upside down on the lawn.
“Dude!” Caleb slapped me on the back. I didn’t think he was as drunk or as stoned as me. “What the fuck?”
I gripped his shoulder. “Come on! It’s ours for the taking!”
I ran down the stairs with Caleb on my heels, racing out the front door and toward the keg that had rolled on its side. I hefted it up, tucked it against me like a football, and started running. It may have only been a pony keg, but it was almost full and I ran like the wind—easily and effortlessly. Yeah, who’s got buggy whip arms now? Take that, sorority bitch!
All I heard behind me was the sweet sound of Caleb and Big Mike’s laughter. I didn’t stop running until I reached Caleb’s apartment. I set the keg beside his front door and grabbed the tap. My desire for something cold outrode reason. I didn’t have a cup, but that didn’t matter. I�
��d guzzle straight from the hose.
Only the keg wouldn’t pump. I leaned forward and realized that when it landed, it smashed the tap.
“Fuck.” I ran my sweaty hands through my hair.
Caleb reached me first. “Dude, you’re a wild man.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well, the fucking pump’s broken.”
Mike arrived just in time to hear my pathetic declaration and burst out laughing. “Still, best beer heist ever.”
But instead of feeling happy, shame crept over me like a heavy cloak that weighed me down. I fucked up. First I got called out after class for not participating and now this? I shouldn’t have stolen the keg. I didn’t know if it was Father Truman’s sermon or Professor Whitman or what, but I couldn’t shake how awful I felt in that moment.
I’m letting everyone down.
“We should return it,” I told them.
“Uh, no,” Caleb said.
“Yeah, that’s not a good idea,” Mike echoed.
Was it? Was anything I’d done from the moment I left campus a good idea?
I could be with Hannah right now. Why didn’t I go with her? What’s my fucking problem?
I glanced at the keg and contemplated my options.
“Why buy trouble that isn’t there?” Caleb said.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I stared at my friend, who I thought I knew, but now I wasn’t so sure.
“Aaron, folks here aren’t as cool as they are in Toledo,” Mike said.
“Dude, you got away with it. Now let’s go inside my apartment and try to crack this thing open,” Caleb said by way of an explanation, but something still felt off.
Fucking everything was off.
I came to Columbus so I wouldn’t feel alone, but this wasn’t my school or campus. With Caleb and Mike both staring at me, I suddenly felt like a third wheel.
“Listen, they’ve got two other kegs on the balcony. They aren’t going to miss one,” Mike said.
They both made valid points, but this wasn’t a democracy. The choice was mine and mine alone to make. I’ve got to do something.
“You don’t have to come with me, but I’ve got to take it back.” Anxiety inched up my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Everyone steals things at parties,” Mike said. “One time I took this really dope bottle opener.” He glanced at Caleb. “Remember that?”
“For real.” Caleb gripped my shoulder. “Dude, it’s no big deal. You’re tripping. Besides, the keg’s broken.”
The dented keg and busted pump made my stomach tighten. “Man, I blew it.” I rubbed my hands on my jeans. “I’ve got to make this right.”
18
Aaron
Her name was Amber, and originally I thought she was dressed as a Starbucks coffee.
“I’m a Frappuccino,” she corrected me with a curtsy that was cute as hell.
“What flavor?” I raised a single eyebrow. It always worked well with the finer sex.
“I don’t know!” She laughed and then raised her own eyebrow. “What’s your favorite?”
“Strawberries and cream.” I felt heat rush to my face. Thankfully, she laughed. I nodded toward the top of her head. “Is that PVC pipe?”
“Yes! How’d you know?”
“My dad works with it at the golf course. They use it for the irrigation system.” My summers spent in Jackson Hole flashed before me. After so many countless hours literally laying pipe, I could practically feel the smooth material that protruded from her head in a makeshift straw. “I didn’t know they made it in green.”
She slightly bowed and her long, wavy brown hair brushed against her bare, tanned shoulder. She was showing off the green PVC pipe that was stuck in a bubble of white felt, which actually did look like whipped cream, but I couldn’t stop staring at her hair. Or the way it fell so far down her arm.
“Nice,” I said.
Brown eyes gazed up at me. A guy could lose himself in those eyes. She had perfect teeth and a perfect smile. Everything about her was perfect—except she wasn’t Hannah.
I grabbed the bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, twisted off the cap, and began to drink. The sooner I forgot about Hannah, the better my night would go.
“Sorry about your keg,” I said.
She grinned. “It’s not really my keg, but the deposit on it is. Thanks for finding it.”
I shrugged. There was only so much truth-telling I was willing to do. “Eh, it was the right thing to do.”
“Are you always such a Boy Scout?” She bridged the gap between us, which in the crowded kitchen wasn’t much.
I shook my head. “Rarely.”
Whenever she smiled, her head tilted. “I’m not a fan of good.”
“No?” I held her gaze with my own.
“No.” Her hair swayed on her shoulders. “Why be good when bad is so much more fun?” The rest of her costume consisted of nothing more than a tan-colored slip that made her look like she wasn’t wearing anything. The oversized green Starbucks logo in the center of her stomach—not that she had a belly—distinguished her outfit as a costume and not just some sexy lingerie. The girl was tiny with a big personality that I couldn’t drink in enough.
I took another hard swig from the bottle. The rush of bourbon heated my throat and loosened the imaginary hand that always seemed wrapped around my neck, waiting to choke the life out of me.
“So….” I crossed the last bit of space between us until our bodies touched. Even though the house screamed with people, everything and everyone faded to black. Her brown eyes and bewitching smile were all I saw.
She stood on her tiptoes until her lips pressed against mine. There were two guarantees when I was drunk: I was a shitty driver, and I was horny as hell. Since I didn’t have a car, there was no worry about the former, and the latter seemed to be working itself out quite nicely. When her tongue slipped into my mouth, the tang of lemonade awakened my senses. When she led me toward her upstairs bedroom, nothing else mattered for a moment and I was happy.
19
Branson
I scanned the waiting room. One guy’s leg was bouncing and a gal was knitting either a giant sock or sweater, but it was the dude in the heavy tweed winter coat with the yellow flower in his lapel that truly shined. The room was hot as fuck, and this cat looked like he was ready for Wyoming’s worst winter. I watched him look frantically around the place. Yeah, buddy, no one’s in charge.
“I’m dyslexic,” he announced. “Can anyone help me fill out this form?”
I addressed him from the aluminum chair that my huge ass was parked on.
“Buddy, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that I’m not dyslexic, but the bad news is that in stressful situations, I tend to hear voices. So if you speak up, then I can do it. I can help ya.”
“Voices, huh?”
No one in the room stared at me or thought twice about my revelation or our conversation. Shit, I was in a room full of people who were probably more like me than I wanted to own. Add to it that we were all here on our weekend, which either made us total losers or desperate to get a professor off our backs. Or probably both.
“Yeah, that’s a whole other story.” I stood and walked toward him. “Let’s get the form filled out together.”
“Thanks, man,” he said and handed me the clipboard.
“Welcome to the Depression Center,” I read from the pink intake sheet I’d completed ten minutes earlier.
The guy grinned. “Why would they welcome you to a center for depression? Isn’t that counterproductive?”
I laughed. “Good point. Maybe it’s about relating.”
That made him chuckle.
“I’m more likely to get overwhelmed with all this stuff,” he said.
“Me too.”
I discovered his name was Bob Carole. He was two years older than me and about to graduate.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get a college degree. So to be under thirty
is a win,” he said.
“Dude, you’re only twenty-five. You know how many people take gap years? You’re right on course.”
Bob seemed to consider what I said.
“My professor told me this was the best opportunity for me to meet my people,” he told me.
If I had a dime for every time well-intentioned people and their well-intentioned comments told me what I needed, I’d be as rich as Trump and just as emotionally bankrupt.
“Hell, Bob,” I said, “I think I just found my tribe.”
* * *
My first session with the Depression Center began when the counselor ushered us into a sterile room with white walls and more aluminum chairs. She introduced herself as Gabbie but pronounced her name through gritted teeth so it sounded more like Debbie. Still, she was in charge and asked us to grab a chair and form one large circle.
If it wasn’t such a stereotype of group therapy, I’d laugh. But I’d already made a friend in Bob, who kicked off the conversation. Gabbie wanted us to introduce ourselves and the issue—singular—we were working on.
“So, my mom claims there was a time when there weren’t laptops. Strange,” Bob began. His coat was unbuttoned, which revealed another jacket on top of a sweatshirt and sweatpants. The guy was either seriously cold or trying to cut weight for wrestling. And with the gut that hung over his pants, I doubted he was a wrestler.
“Then IBM invented the first portable computer, and the thing was huge. Like not just in the newness of it but also the actual size. This thing came with a carrying case and had like zero battery life. Still, as my mom tells the story, it was transformative, or so she claims,” he continued.
I glanced at Gabbie, who sat with her legs shifted to the side and crossed at the ankle like she was royalty. Or maybe that was how women sat. It just looked weird. And uncomfortable as fuck.
“Anyway, since my mom had one of the first laptops, she said it made her feel less invisible, which is funny because all my life, I’ve wanted to be invisible and she didn’t.” Bob seemed lost in time.
