Cheap Thrills (6 Thrilling reads)

by Luis Samways

  It’s not that he sticks his fingers out and says stuff like, “Smell that, boys? That’s the smell of a man getting pussy.”…Okay, maybe he does. But he’s a good guy. In comparison he leads the same style of life that all of us live in our group. We go to the same college, and we live in the same suburban shithole. The similarities end there, I’m afraid. Since we started college, the guy has changed. He fell into the mid-popular range while we dwindled in the lower leagues when it came to school popularity contests. I don’t know how he became so popular so fast while we remained so unworthy. Nothing new on our side, though. He was there at one point with us, in the same shitty twilight zone, experiencing the same lack of appreciation or pure acknowledgement of our existence. You know how the system works. Be an asshole, and your fellow students cheer you as you walk down the corridor on the way to home-mech; be academic and have aspirations of moving out of your hick neighbourhood, and you get slammed into the lockers and made to look like a victim. I know that system, and I appreciate my place in it. Seth, however, did not. That’s why he brought a baseball bat to school and gave the resident school asshole a new face. That’s why he is where he is now. With that incident he managed to grow some confidence along with his newfound balls. Yeah, that’s Seth all right…push him and he pushes back. Still, though, the guy can party!

  Two

  Me, Myself & the Mirror

  Confidence is something I personally lack. As you can probably tell, I have a certain disdain for over-the-top arrogance. Seth aside, I hate the popular people. They are popular for all the wrong reasons. If you ask me, we so-called nerds are the true gatekeepers of the universe. While most of these jocks and sluts will go on welfare for the rest of their lives while they rear children like cattle at a dairy farm, we nerds move on to bigger things, super-hot models and fast cars, well-paying jobs and self-respect — well, that’s what Seth tells me.

  Enough about him for the time being. Let’s talk about me. My name is Toby French. Yep, that’s right; my parents are condescending assholes. It’s not that I don’t like my name, it’s just that’s it’s so, you know…meh. Anyway, you can imagine the sort of nicknames I get at school. “Toby the Turtle” is one of them, maybe because I have a slow pace about the way I walk. Well, that’s what I like to think. But I know it’s probably some juvenile way to go about calling me slow, as in retarded, even though I get straight A’s all year round and never flunk a class. But in high school that sort of success means you are “retarded.” I should have known that the most successful people in the world drank from beer bongs and had sex with multiple brain-dead cheerleaders. Oh, well, I guess I’ll just have to stick to my 185 IQ and “retarded” grades.

  My real friends (Seth included) call me “Frenchy.” It’s nice, I suppose, but nothing that flatters the pants off me. I would rather be called Toby, seeing that’s my name, funnily enough. Moving on, I’m a pretty sarcastic and easygoing fella. I enjoy my video games, as previously stated, and really enjoy my math. I don’t know what it is about math that makes me hard, but I tend to sway to the point that maybe it’s because math is problem-solving and my life is chock block full of problems. I also like drinking. I mean, what self-respecting under-twenty-one-year-old American doesn’t? Plus, when the parties flow, the beer usually does the same. Not to mention all the hot girls. I guess the only bad thing about these parties is most of the company. You get the jocks being assholes and the women admiring the assholes for some ungodly reason. Don’t get me wrong — I, too, would behave like a menacing alpha-male jock if I had the ability to, but the truth is I’m five foot eight on a good day and a buck ten on a fat day. So you can imagine the six-foot-five guys weighing in at a muscle-y two hundred and twenty being more of a babe magnet than me, who in fairness is more of a punch magnet. Not that I get blasted in the face or anything, but the jocks do like to give me a dead arm once in a while. Not too often, just a few times a day. They like to approach me and say things like,“Frenchy, good to see you, buddy. Oh, by the way, I appreciate you doing my essay for me. Sick website, man!” Then bam, the inevitable punch in the shoulder. Oh, how that makes me feel like “one of them.”

  The website they are referring to is the one I set up myself: willdoyourhomeworkforyou.net. It’s a little venture I thought of all by myself. People go on there and fill out a form, attach a Word document, and send me $10 to complete it. It’s usually pretty easy; I mean, most of them send me math and English work. Some of them on the odd occasion make it hard on me and send me essays on football so they can pass their scholarship. I get Seth to help me out with those. We split it five bucks a piece on those occasions. I tend to make about $500 a week. It’s a good little earner. No Saturday job for me, just all the Cheetos I want and an everlasting cash pile for my video games. Not to mention that it’s made me less of a punching bag and locker-dwelling nerd, and more of their homework friend, which in point gets me and the boys into all of their parties. Yay for me!

  Three

  The Phone Call

  I’m sitting in my room as usual, playing the greatest game of all time, World of Warcraft. It’s an MMORPG. In other words, it’s a game where loads of people play it simultaneously while going about their daily business such as looting gold and armour in dungeons or playing through the thousands of quests that are available to complete. The game rocks, and I enjoy it immensely. It’s rather expensive, as you have to pay a monthly subscription to play the damn thing. Fifteen bucks a month is no easy steer for a guy in college. But my brilliant website takes care of that for me, so who cares, right? I look at the time as I glare down at my watch.

  It’s eight-thirty. I need to get moving and get ready. Seth will be calling me at any minute telling me that he is outside. He picks me up on a Saturday night. He’s got a Scooby Doo–type van, old hippy type of body work. Seth actually went out of his way to deface the peace sign that stretched out on the van’s side. I don’t exactly know why, but I think maybe he was worried by what sort of message the peace sign would send. After all, he did just break out into the major leagues of college rep.

  I get up from my sturdy black foldable chair propped nicely under my lavish metal desk that supports my budget PC. I stretch a little to get rid of those creaks and cracks that make the life of a PC gamer hell. I widen my arms out, and I hear them snap. Ah, that’s better. I feel like the Tin Man with a new oil job. I look at myself briefly. As usual, I look like shit, nothing new there. I grab some hair gel and smooth my black hair over. It looks queer, but that’s what everyone is doing these days. Got to stay fab for the girls! Not that it ever gets me a girl. Peer pressure is a wonderful drug.

  I look around my room and marvel at its dingy euphoria that engulfs the four walls. Metallica posters don my walls as Persian rugs sit nicely in a mansion. You got to love the metal, baby. I sift through a couple of piles of clothing, nothing too miraculous, the usual black-on-black gothic look. Today I’m going for something a bit more Peter Parker. I get my glasses from my metal desk. They sit nicely perched next to my mouse. I put them on and can instantly see better. I guess that’s why I get headaches at college. I know what you’re thinking — yes, I don’t wear them because I don’t want to be more of a nerd than I am. High school b.s., I know. It’s still ingrained in me, I guess. I swap my Family Guy T-shirt for a polo shirt. You know the type, striped and blue. I leave my jeans on; they will do for this occasion. After all, it’s just a night out with the boys. Hit a few student clubs (a lot of seedy places that will serve underage drinkers in Boston, you know).

  Right on cue my iPhone rings, just as I’m contemplating whether to shave or not. It’s not that I have an abundance of facial hair; it’s just I’d rather not look like I’m still struggling to grow some at the ripe old age of nineteen. It tends to be a bit sparse. It’s missing the nine o’clock shadow. I fish the phone out of my pocket. It rattles in my hand as I try to unlock the thing. I slide my finger across the screen and hit the green button.

  “You got
Toby,” I say while admiring my appearance in the mirror — in other words, having second thoughts on the outfit.

  “Hey, Frenchy, get your ass outside. The boys are here. And so is the man,” Seth says into the phone. Oh, his way with words amazes me.

  “Okay, I’ll be two minutes.” I hang the phone up and shove it back into my pocket. I smear my hair one last time for good luck.

  Four

  The Van Ride to Fun

  I say goodbye to my folks. As usual, they are watching the TV, some stupid game show about words and numbers. Believe it or not, that isn’t my sort of show. They briefly acknowledge me with a grunt as I stand in the hallway, looking into the living room. Dad remains seated, beer in one hand, remote in the other. Mum looks at me briefly and then back at the TV. There’s no point in me trying to connect with those two ever since Luke died. Oh, well, time to get shit-faced. I crank open the front door and skid down the pathway. I see the van pulled up on the curb across from my house. The thing looks like it dropped out of space, seeing it’s oozing smoke from the windows like a cow carcass in a freezer. I walk up to the driver’s window and give it a rattle. Seth smiles as he unwinds the window with the world’s biggest spliff in his mouth. The waft instantly hits me.

  “Not outside my house, dude,” I say to him, like it matters anyway. The guy always seems to forget my dad is a court bailiff.

  “Whatever, Frenchy. Get in the van — we got places to go.”

  I oblige and swing the heavy sliding door open. The stench is stronger this time as a mixture of weed and beer hits my face. I hoist myself up and take a seat. The whole gang is here. Dwaine, Mike, Rocco and Elle. As usual the boys look shit-faced, all of them enjoying the music, beer, and drugs as they say hello to me and carry on talking about whatever they were talking about before I entered. Elle, on the other hand, just smiles at me with those gorgeous beautiful eyes that only she can sport. I swear, every time she looks at me it’s like a dagger in my heart. Her warm lips beckon to me, and her rocking body makes me want to scream to the heavens. Not that I would tell her that, of course. Not shy old me. She looks amazing, as usual. Her brown hair sways down to her shoulders. Her tight blouse supports her amazing figure. She definitely makes the nights out with the boys more interesting, especially in the eye-candy department. The only thing is, she is more of a guy than any of us could ever wish to be. She drinks more than I do and she gets into more fights than I do. All of the guys have accepted her as one of them. All but me, for I see her as the girl of my dreams. Not just because she is insanely hot and has those amazing lips. She is a hell of a lot of fun, too. I lean in closer to her and put my hand on her knee.

  “What’s up, babe?” I say to her, my ever-growing love evident in my eyes. She smiles back at me and leans in, meeting me half way. Her perfume surrounds me as she opens her mouth, revealing her beautiful teeth.

  “Get your hands off me, Frenchy, or I’ll smack that stupid look off your face.”

  I told you she’s a lot of fun. I obviously oblige and quickly take my trembling hand off her knee. She smiles at me and blows me a kiss. Oh, what I would do to land my lips on hers. Oh, well, a guy can dream…right. Seth looks back at me and winks. He turns back around and puts his foot down on the accelerator. We haul ass out of my street faster than ever. I buckle up, because as usual Seth makes me want to fear for my life when he’s driving. At least I have a perfect view across from me as the ever beautiful Elle looks on and mocks me with her tongue sticking out. I try to not look as if I’m blowing chunks out of my ass, but it’s hard to when you fear your about to plow into oncoming traffic. It’s just another routine Saturday night out on the town for me and my friends.

  Five

  The Arrival

  We arrive at the place collectively known as “The Dive.” It’s not a scuba diving shop, that’s for sure. There’s not a single snorkel in sight. We call it The Dive because it’s just that. The place sucks ass, and it’s full of old farts. They do serve us beer, though, so that’s why we are here. We park the car up the alleyway as usual. The place is full of black trash bags. It smells like rotten fish as I step out of the van. Nearly straight away the night starts out bad. As I get out of the van, my new Converses hit a puddle of mud. The splash from the puddle hits my jeans as I look down in frustration.

  “Oh, goddamn it,” I spurt out as I try to wipe down the muddy water off my Levi’s.

  I give up quickly, realizing that there’s no point. I look around the alley way and see the usual cesspool of garbage strewn all over the place. The neon lights from a number of back alley “nail salons” glow off the sleek ground. The rest of the group manage to pry themselves away from the van and join me in admiring the view. Seth taps me on the shoulder while looking up at the sky, as if he is searching for a particular star.

  “You smell that, Frenchy?” asks Seth, who’s still looking up at the sky

  “Yes, I do — it smells like shit.”

  “No, you’re wrong, Toby. It smells like a good night!”

  “How the hell do you work that one out? We’re in a back alley surrounded by trash.”

  “You have to look beyond the trash, Toby. A night of wonder lies in front of us.”

  I nod in agreement so as to not carry the conversation on. All I want to do is get to the bar and knock down some beers. Seth walks on in front with the boys as I linger behind, waiting for Elle. She finally gets out of the van. Her hair looks immaculate as I look on in awe. She spots me looking at her and gives me a sideways glance.

  “What?” she asks me.

  “Nothing, I’m just waiting for you.”

  “I was just doing my hair. A girl’s got to look the part.” She smiles.

  I nod as she brushes up against me. She walks on in front as I watch her catch up with the rest of the group. Her hair shines bright as the neon lights hit her head — a near-perfect shine akin to a shampoo ad. She turns around and gives me a seductive look. Her black hair bounces off her cheeks as she stares deep into my thoughts.

  “Are you coming, then?” she asks as I stand still. My feet feel as if I’m glued to the ground.

  “Yeah, wait up,” I manage to say.

  I jog on over to her as she puts her arm around my shoulders. I look at her with loving eyes, and she grins back at me. I manage to pluck up the courage and put my arm around her waist as we walk off, embracing each other. We catch up to the guys, who haven’t really noticed anything; they continue to mumble on about whatever classless thing they are talking about. I, on the other hand, am completely happy. Maybe the girl of my dreams does want to be with me after all. Maybe she just wants to show a little sympathy to me. Either way, I’m going to hold on to this feeling for the rest of my life.

  Six

  The Bar

  I walk into The Dive. I’m the first in, as usual. Unfortunately, Elle’s embrace stopped at the door. I walk up to the bar and have a look around. The place is practically empty. I eyeball the bartender. He nods at me. I walk back over to the heavy pine doors that lead to the outside. I knock on them twice. The rest of the group open it and walk on through. That’s the deal. The bartender is the one who came up with the idea. If he wants us to come in and drink, he gives me the nod. It’s sort of like a secret handshake, without the touching and sweaty palms. He decides when we leave as well. He’ll give me a glance and usually hand me a tab. We fish around in our pockets for the cash and split the bill between us. It’s been a ritual since high school. We have been drinking in this shithole for nearly three years. The bartender has only ever once kicked us out early, and that was because we got into a massive brawl with some hairy bikers. We actually won as well. That’s most likely because of the fact that there was eight of us that night, and two of them. Simple math, not to mention the barstools we were using to our advantage. After that night, the bartender said he was all right with us drinking here. Even though we’re underage, he likes the fact that we have “spunk,” in his own words. I suppose the only reason
he lets us in the place is because he gets bored of his usual patrons.

  The bar isn’t anything special, either. It’s rusted-looking, to say the least. The walls are covered in vintage pulp fiction–style pictures. The usual suspects — Al Capone, Harry “The Hat” Hopkins, and of course Marilyn Monroe — they are all propped up beautifully on a yellowish off-color wooden-style wall. The place sort of looks like a dirty cabin where fishermen drink ale and talk about the day’s big catch. The lights at the bar are bright; a few bulbs are near dim. It adds a bit of character, I think. The bar top is green, much like the felt surface of a cheap pool table. A crappy sixties-style jukebox sits in the corner of the bar next to all the tables and chairs. I swear the thing must be broken, seeing it’s stuck on the same damn song all the time. The group and I take our seats at the bar. Seth sits in the middle as usual. I sit at the end; I like the light fixture on the wall next to my usual spot. It echoes a nice beam onto my usually dark shot. I can see the bubbles form in the glass. It’s just a little observation I sometimes make. Often I do it out of sheer boredom, but tonight I highly doubt that’s going to happen, seeing that Elle is taking the spot on the stool to my right. Her beautiful legs cross as she glances at me. She starts to suck her thumb; God knows I know what she ought to be sucking. I try to ignore her and order my drink. The bartender comes over. He’s slightly overweight. He looks like one of those burger flippers in knock-off “McBurger towns.” He’s wearing a white vest stained with sweat. He waddles up to the end of the bar, his towel over his shoulder cocktail style. He looks at me as if to ask what I wanted, if it wasn’t already obvious.