Gypsy asked Sconce, who was found closely examining the coiled bulbs that were lined along the top of a nearby vending booth.
“What’s up with your buddy?” I asked Gypsy. “Does he have some fetish for light bulbs or what?”
“He designs lights,” Gypsy replied. “That’s what he does for a living.”
“That’s real exciting,” I stated with a sarcastic tone. “I mean, I like bugs so I can’t say much but at least insects do cool shit like eat each other alive and parasitize their neighbors. What do light bulbs do besides hang in place and glow? My nuts do that.”
“He’s just checking out how they’re designed,” Gypsy stated in defense of his friend.
“Well, how many different ways are there to make a damn light bulb?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Hey, dude,” I called over to Sconce. “We’re gonna go eat. You wanna come with us or fondle those bulbs?”
Sconce looked away from his intense study of the illuminated coils and refocused upon the goings on around him. “Alright,” he said. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry too. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“I guess we’ll go find a place somewhere back in town,” Gypsy stated.
The three of us took the train back into the city. From there, we went on foot and quickly located an eating establishment not far from the youth hostel. The small diner was a typical burger joint that would have been at home near any university campus. Nevertheless, the meals were rather expensive in regard to their bland quality and the horrible table service that was offered from the waiting staff.
After we had finished eating, the server brought us a combined bill for our three meals. I counted out the dollars that were owed from my portion of the check and handed my money over to Sconce. I then immediately began plotting for our nighttime endeavors once the server had been paid.
“Alright, so check this out,” I said to Gypsy and Sconce. “I came out here a couple years ago when my friend was attending college just down the street. They have this great party district across town. There’s all sorts of bars and clubs. I went to this gnarly place called Axis. It kicks ass. There’s lots of fine trim in there but you have to meet the dress code to get in. So if we get on the T, I think we can take the green line and probably make it there by—”
“I don’t really feel like going out,” Sconce interjected. “I’m kind of tired. Sitting out in the sun sort of did me in.”
I offered Sconce and annoying glare. “You’re not going out? Well, what the hell are you going to do instead? I thought we had a plan…”
“I have a really good book back at the hostel.”
“A good book?” I asked. “It’s Saturday night.”
“Yeah, I was reading it on the plane over here and I couldn’t put it down. It’s a really good book.”
“It’s Saturday night,” I repeated. “In Boston. We’re in a major city on a Saturday night and you want to go back to the fuckin youth hostel to read a book?”
Sconce nodded his head sheepishly and looked away.
“Is this guy for real?” I asked Gypsy while thumbing at his lame friend.
“Well,” Gypsy replied, “you have to keep in mind that we’re a little older than you, Keaton.”
“So, you’re not dead are you?” Gypsy did not respond. Flummoxed, I looked between my two companions. I then returned my focus upon my coworker. “Alright, so your buddy here wants to go back to the hostel and read a god damn book. What do you want to do?”
Gypsy paused before answering my question. Then he said, “Well, I was interested in talking more with those Aussies.”
“The who?”
“Our Australian roommates. They seemed like some cool guys. I want to talk more with them.”
I started to become highly annoyed. “Hold the phone, wait a minute. Here we are. The three of us. It’s Saturday night. We’re in Boston. There’s dance clubs and hot snatch aplenty just across the way there. And you guys want to spend the night reading and chit-chatting with some douche bags from down under? Are you pulling my zucchini or what?”
The two momma boys in front of me looked away without responding.
“Look, we should probably go,” Sconce finally stated after a few moments of awkward silence. He then looked squarely at me. “Oh, and you owe me three dollars, by the way.”
“What the hell for?”
“For your part of the tip.”
“The tip? What the hell? You’re tipping that guy three bucks to bring over our hamburgers and be late with my swigs? I had to ask him four times to give me a refill.”
Sconce scoffed. “No, I’m not tipping him just three dollars. I already gave him nine dollars and three of that is yours. We each paid three dollars for the tip.”
“I didn’t pay him shit,” I asserted.
“I know,” Sconce said. “I paid him for you since there was a combined bill. Now you owe me your share.”
“Dude, our bill wasn’t even twenty-five bucks and you tipped that gimp nine dollars?”
“That’s right. He was a good guy. He seemed nice. Do you know what waiters make?”
“I don’t give a greasy shit what they make! If they don’t like the wages, they can go get another job. Look, man, let me explain something to you. Generally speaking, I don’t tip a motherfucking dime. But, when and if I do, two conditions must apply. First, the service best be above and beyond the norm. That means, whoever my server is, they best be Johnny on the Spot with my swigs. If I have to ask for refills and whatnot, no tip. Second, my server best be a female and she better be cute—preferably with large cones. If she’s not hot, I’m not tipping. Our server was a dude. And he sucked balls. I had to ask for refills. That means, I ain’t paying you or him dick.”
“You owe me three dollars,” Sconce maintained. “I already tipped him.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You already tipped him. I didn’t. You assumed that I would agree with your bullshit tipping philosophy and I don’t. Your mistake, pal. Take your three bucks and go buy yourself another good book to read back at the hostel.” I stood up from the table. “Now, if you homos will excuse me, I’m going to go clubbing. While you two are holding hands with the Aussie bastards and enjoying your faggot reading material, I’m gonna go bury my face into some of New England’s finest titties.” I abruptly turned and strolled out of the eating establishment, leaving the two wet rags moping in their mediocrity.
II.
The anticlimatic trip to Boston with my counselor coworker deterred me from socializing any further with him or any of his psychobabble-spewing ilk. I learned that in order to
