Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,13

least two hundred dollars by the time she ran out of iced tea, and as she walked off to count her money, Roy stood up and said, “I’m gonna go talk to her. Yo, Vin, if I’m not back in twenty minutes, leave without me.”

“You got it.”

Roy gave Vinny a high five then leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Swing by my apartment tomorrow afternoon. There’s something we need to talk about, and I don’t want Vinny to find out about it. Okay?”

I swallowed hard. “Sure.”

“Great!” He slapped me on the back and said, “It’s good to have you home.”

Roy disappeared, and I took a long pull from my Heineken. It tasted gross, but it was cheaper than Santa’s South Shore Iced Tea, so I took another sip and pondered Roy’s words. The “something” he mentioned was probably a job that he wanted me to be part of. Damn my family. I’d been home less than five hours, and already they wanted me to put on my weasel costume.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” Vinny said, pointing toward the stage where a new waitress had begun dancing, “that girl’s got way too much junk in the trunk to be shaking her tail feathers for a living.”

“That’s classy, Vin,” I replied. “Real classy.”

“You know me. I’m all about the class.”

The new waitress was earning just a fraction of what the first waitress had made. The last thing I wanted was a shot of Marci’s Magic Margarita, but I felt sorry for her and pulled out a ten and three singles.

“Thanks,” she said as she took my money. “What’s your name?”

“Thomas Jefferson. What’s yours?”

“Desirée.”

“That’s a nice name, Desirée. What do you do when you’re not shooting people in the face with overpriced cocktails?”

“Change diapers,” she said, and danced away.

“Hey,” I called after her.

Desirée turned around, and I held out the last of my cash.

“Here,” I said. “Buy your kid something nice for Christmas.”

8

THERE ARE MANY THINGS TO LOOK FORWARD TO IN LIFE. Your first bike, your first kiss, your first Yankees’ game . . .

Your first hangover is not one of them.

I drank half as much as Vinny, but that was more than enough to transform my bed into a Tilt-A-Whirl, and my head into a pulsating pain machine. No matter which way I turned, I felt like I was going to vomit, and when I switched off the lights it only got worse. Finally, out of desperation, I untangled myself from the sheets and crawled to the bathroom.

“This suuuuuucks,” I moaned as an entire night’s worth of beer and tequila came gurgling up along with the Double Baconator I’d inhaled at Wendy’s on the way home. Even worse, I’d put the food on my debit card, and now had less than forty dollars to my name. At least I told them to hold the onions on the Baconator.

When there was nothing left to puke up, I slid down to the floor. The bathroom tile felt cool against my cheek, but my head still felt like the inside of a bouncy castle. Why do people drink if they end up feeling like this? I wondered as I curled up with the blue shag pee-pee-protector in front of the toilet. I closed my eyes and passed out swearing I’d never have another drink for as long as I lived.

• • •

The next thing I knew it was morning and sunlight was blasting through the windows. The throbbing in my head was still there, and I struggled to my feet to take a look at myself in the mirror. It was a toss-up which was worse: my hair, my eyes, or the imprint of the pee-pee-protector on my cheek. I threw some water on my face and looked around for some aspirin. There was nothing in the Skip O’Rourke Memorial bathroom, so I went into my mother’s room to see if I could find some. Her nightstand was empty, and when I opened her medicine cabinet I stepped back in horror. Every inch of it was jammed with prescription medication. And I mean every inch. I didn’t recognize the names on the bottles, but they all had pictures of drowsy men printed on them along with warnings not to drive or operate heavy machinery after ingesting.

I sat on the edge of the bathtub and tried to remember if my mother had always been a drug addict. I recalled plenty of trips to drugstores, but those were mostly for Whitman Samplers or the