If you think I’m awoken let me know. If you think I’m a drunken easy let me know. Either way I hope I’m likeable, at least a bit. It’s Sunday today and as usual I wake up in a messy bed full and ready to burst with booze, drugs, and… other fluids. For some reason I also have a piece of fuckin toilet tissue wrapped around my finger. Who the hell is Emma? And why the hell would she write her name on this thing? I’ll have to figure this out later.

It’s the big game tonight and once again the champion’s presence is requested. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to still be at home. Ma always wanted me there, at least until one of her boyfriends came home, then it was all “Alyssa, room now.”

She’s probably in church now. She always did like it when everyone gawked at her. Usually because she wore just the right dress that accented her natural looks, while at the same time making her look like a complete and utter skank. Christ, I still feel embarrassed even though I’m not there to see it. You ever have those moments, I certainly do. Anyway, I know there are a lot of people out there who just look at you and judge, least that’s what ma always said. I know now not to give a shit but back then please, I wouldn’t let ma down the street to her friends birthday party unless she acted right, dressed right, sounded right, I had an entire fucking checklist for her. In many ways I still do. Only difference is it’s for myself this time.

God my fucking head is killing me. I pop some pills wash the grease outta my hair and basically go through all the usual pleasantries and motions of the day to day. Why? Cause I ain’t got nothing better to do. I walk over to the fridge that for some reason smells of bleach and Vicks vapor rub and pull out another bruski. Yeah, yeah I know what you’re thinking but like I said before, I ain’t got nothing better to do. So for now I’m just gonna sink down into this six foot long couch and just look out the glitzy over priced Vegas veranda. Maybe I should go to church? Maybe Ma is waiting for me?

**********************************************************************************************

“Sit straight and shut up,” ma says.

I wonder if other kids have to deal with this shit. “So it’s wrong for me to slouch but it's okay for Fred to rub up on your thigh. He’s a fricken cat.”

Her hand comes down. “Ow, quit hittin’ me Ma. You told me this was God’s house and if I were God I wouldn’t want anyone fucking in my house.”

“I'm going to tell you again, SHUT. YOUR. MOUTH. NOW!”

Her hand twitches and my face already starts hurting.

“Yes ma,” I say.

Oh and Fred’s back from the bathroom, wonderful. He’s still a few feet from us but I look forward to him petting my head with his skinny smoke smelling hand and then going right back to fondling my mother. All the while the priest continues saying the same thing he’s been saying for hours.

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Damn these fuckers are bad. I don’t have a good hand at all. Hell I’m not wearing my best poker face and I can still tell what they have, how much they want to win, and how much they’re gonna piss themselves when they lose. Amateur hour I swear to God this is supposed to be the championship, biggest high roller high stakes game. So why am I reminded of junior high school boys organizing their first boys night. Normally I’d be the first one to give them a pat on the back and a fresh pair of pants but this time, I don’t know. I call, our cards slam on the table, and oh hooray I feel the familiar tingle of the table’s turf rushing up my arm as I rake in the chips. And so they cry, and so they shout, and so their once long cigars come crashing down exploding into a cloud of ash leaving only a stub with a bite mark between their lips.

I leave the table, and every hipster hack with a smart phone decides then and there it would be a really smart idea to take a picture of the champ. Flash, flash, and flash again it’s like my eyeballs have some kind of sunglass glaze over them I’m so used to this shit.

“Hey Bernie” I say to my grubby old friend who dwells behind the counter.

“Hey Alyssa” he says, choking out a minty flavored burp. Poor sod chews down packs of gum like they were fucking skittles. At least you can eat skittles.

“Been drinking tonight,” I ask?

“Nah” He says, running the cash through those chubby fingers of his.

“So I shouldn’t call your AA sponsor about your gum addiction.”

“You made that joke last week.”

“Did I?”

“Ya, here’s your money Ms. Pierce you have a good night.”

I guess… this is the part where I take the money and go but am I losing my wiseass spark? Christ I hope not, that’s one of the only things I do have to do anymore. I need to get out of here.

**********************************************************************************************

This is why I fucking love Saturday day night. Two days before the big tournament and I have just been drinking… fuck I don’t know but God it burns and I love it.

“Hey babe, buy you a drink?” I ask this hottie.

“Oh, Ms. Pierce I’m so sorry."

He’s… a she… a cocktail waitress.

“Hey” I say.

“Um… are you enjoying your party?” she asks twiddling her long blonde hair around her spindly arms and flapper uniform. Curves in the all the right places I’ll give her that much.

“Yeah, yeah I guess,” I say, “same DJ, same friends same drinks. Always fun right?”

“Sounds boring,” she says.

“Excuse me!”

“Don’t get me wrong it’s just well, you’re so cool and I’ve worked this lounge about three times and you always look so bored and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to I don’t know, mix things up.”

“What uh, what do you have in mind?”

“You wanna… get out of here, I mean I’m on break so. I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”

“What's your name?”

“Emma.”

Maybe this could go somewhere. Hell I don’t even know if I like girls like that, but its better than doing this, a lot of things are better then this. Oh listen to me, a rich player who has it all complaining about having too much. Call it whining or don’t, either way I hope this works out.

I take her to my room and undress, the music of the next room still thumping against the dry wall.

© 2013 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#fiction