is even worse, the mustache Burt Reynolds-thick but the beard uneven and growing in patches all the way down to his chest hair. Skullet or no skullet, Big Neff is a saint on Earth; he’s purchased at least half the beer I’ve consumed in high school.
At the moment, Big Neff is pissed at Little Neff. “Shit, Martin. Why don’t I just mount a neon sign on the roof saying, ‘arrest our fucking asses’?”
Neff garbles something from the front porch. He’s pissing on a bush. His brother disappears without a response. What the hell is his name anyway?
I nudge the volume back up again. No one notices. I pause before the fourth beer hits my lips. Beth is still standing next to me. She starts bouncing to the music. She looks bored.
“You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”
Beth’s smile disappears. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Well, I just figured that, you know…”
“I came out with you to have some fun, Hank.” She yanks my fourth beer from my hand, takes about half of it down in one swallow, and leaves the other half on both our shirts. “And have some fun is exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Did someone say fun?”
It’s Hatch. He has in his hands an unopened fifth of Jim Beam and a shot glass. I respond with a mock puking noise.
“Relax, Fitzy. I brought us a chaser. Fire in the hole!” Hatch zips a two liter of Mountain Dew at me. It hits me in the balls, as was intended.
“Hatch…” I gasp for air. “You’re a fucking dick.”
The unrecognizable Prep hockey player and Claire join us. Claire sits on the hockey player’s lap. This bugs the shit out of Hatch. He drinks two shots of Beam for no apparent reason other than the jealousy he wears on his sleeve like an oversized cufflink.
“Scoot back.” Beth turns her ass to me and starts to bend over.
A fifth of whiskey between five people is just enough to be dangerous. I’m not full-on wasted, but I’m getting there. “What?”
“I said scoot back. Let me sit on your lap.”
I like Beth, a petite but athletic blond, five feet tall, and a full four or five inches shorter than Laura. She has an omnipresent smile framed by high cheekbones and straight blonde hair that ends just below the small of her back. She’s more cute than sexy, more natural than made-up. Whereas Laura’s bare skin, though tanned, hides behind a sheen of cosmetics, Beth has to remind herself to put on makeup. She’s a state champion gymnast, as advertised by her figure—small but firm breasts, noticeable hips and rounded buttocks, muscular thighs, and obscenely defined calves.
I push my chair away from the table. I nod to Beth, bowing almost. “I’m all yours.”
Hatch suggests a game of euchre to Claire. “Fitzy and I versus you two.”
The hockey player and Claire move to opposite sides of the table. Beth’s ass remains attached to my lap.
Hatch peels the beer-sodden cards off the table. He and I exchange the barest hint of a smirk. Nobody catches it but me. Well played, my friend.
We’re up 2–0 before I even know what’s happening. The hockey player, whom we’ve now identified as Bobbie, comes out of the gates way too aggressive. Hatch turns up the nine of hearts. Bobbie orders him up, gets euchred with the first three tricks.
Bobbie looks at Claire. “I was two-suited with the left and the queen. You’d think I could count on my partner for one.”
Claire does not appreciate the condescension, and Hatch notices. “Or in this case, Bobbie, two or three,” he says, handing the deck of cards over to Claire. He smiles at her. She smiles back. Claire shuffles the deck, offering a cut to Hatch.
“No, thanks. I trust you.”
Another exchange between friends, only this time Hatch and I are more obvious about it. I have a legitimate smirk on my face. Nicely played again. Claire turns up a jack of hearts. I have a crappy hand: one low trump and an ace of hearts, plus an off-suit ten, queen, and jack. My best bet is to see what my partner has, or else hope it goes around again and maybe bait Bobbie into making it diamonds, smack him with another euchre, or else call black for my partner.
I don’t really care about my hand. All I care about is that Beth is dry humping me.
“What do you call, Hank?” Claire says.
“What?”
She takes a shot of Jim Beam, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand that’s holding her cards. “I said, what’s your call?”
Maybe it’s the whiskey, but I missed a lot during that first game of euchre. I missed Beth sliding her ass a little farther back into me. I missed her propping her foot against the table leg. I missed her pushing against the table leg with her foot. I missed her relaxing her foot. Push and relax.
Bobbie is irritated, too. “Hank, do you want to fucking pass or pick it up?”
Push and relax.
All I know is I want out of this game. Beth looks at my cards, contemplates. It’s an awful hand: no trump, no support, no nothing. “Your call,” I say.
“Hmm…” Beth says, pushing against the table leg and holding this time, while rotating her ass harder into me. “I think we’ll—”
“Pick it up!” I shout, my raised shot glass affirming my transparent conviction.
Push and relax.
Hatch’s eyes open wide. “Really? You sure about that, Fitzy?”
Push and relax.
Bobbie leers at Hatch. “No fucking table talk.”
Push and relax.
Hatch almost pulls the hand out all by himself. But Bobbie drops the hammer down on the fifth trick.
“Euchre, bitches!”
That’s how the next five games went. A few whiskey shots, me going out of my way to lose hands. Push and relax. A few more whiskey shots, Hatch growing despondent with my recklessness. Push and relax. Bobbie and Claire were in the barn, up 9–2 and only one point away from victory, when the whiskey ran dry. Hatch dealt himself a loner to get the game to 9–6. Push and relax. Claire turned up another red jack, this one a diamond. Push and relax. I had no diamonds in my hand and looked at Beth, who saw my cards, squeezed my knee, and shouted, “Pick it up!” We were predictably euchred in the first three tricks. Beth and I were already halfway out the front door as Hatch yelled behind us, “What the fuck did you call that on?”
We walk toward the Subie. Beth hooks her arm inside mine again. I struggle with my keys, dropping them on the ground.
Neither of us is in any shape to drive, but that’s not the plan. Beth picks up the keys and unlocks the front door. She opens the door, reaches around, and unlocks the back door. We hop into the back seat together. I still have one
