28-Brad

Brad had been planted on the back porch all night, along with Paul and Lauren, the other porch mainstays. In the aftermath of the second round of the Megaspliff they were all on different worlds. Brad couldn’t feel any of his limbs. But the others—led by Joe and Raza—suddenly seemed to be on crack, as they leapt out of their seats and made their way down into the grass with gusto, carrying the beer bong and a case of Beast Lite with them.

To follow was some of the better entertainment Brad had ever seen, watching the group of rowdy drunks in the yard and what they did with the beer bong. There was yelling, cursing, cheering, and occasional puking after taking one down. Brad’s sides hurt from laughing.

“Why aren’t you guys getting all stupid drunk?” Lauren asked.

Brad shrugged. “I usually don’t. It’s not really my style.”

“Well, it usually is my style,” Paul said. “But…I’m just not in the mood, I guess.”

Lauren looked at him suspiciously. “Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?” she asked.

“What?” Paul asked, defensively. “I’m not allowed to just chill?”

“You do whatever you want with your bad self,” Lauren replied.

Paul considered. “Well, why aren’t you out on the dance floor, Lauren? Ms. Naughty By Nature?”

Lauren grinned. “You’re going old school on me? Right now?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Lauren’s eyes shined as she giggled. “That’s still me at heart, you know. I’m telling you, if Antwann busts out with “O.P.P.” in there, I’ll be knocking people over on my way to the dancefloor. With or without you, Paul.”

They all laughed heartily.

“Before you go out there you should put on the overalls with the one-strap hangin’ down.” Brad suggested. “Y’all remember that?”

Paul did a wild fist pump, and then pointed at Lauren. “She used to rock that look! In middle school!”

Lauren smiled, while nodding. “You can’t talk, Paul. You and Rob used to sag. Like, a lot. I think we can all agree that was the worst fashion trend, right?”

Paul’s smile vanished. “Oh, God. Absolutely. I’m just glad no one was taking pictures back then.”

“Oh, I think I have one or two,” Lauren said, in a sing-song voice.

“That’s like blackmail, Lauren. You should destroy those.”

They laughed, but it was cut short by a voice.

“Brad?”

He looked up. Amy looked at him curiously, among the group just emerging from the sliding glass door, lighting up cigarettes.

“You’ve been here all night?” she asked, bewildered.

Lance Gill stood there also, peering over at Brad with an unimpressed look on his face. He still hovered near Amy, deploying his relentless press. But Amy shattered it by walking right past him toward the table.

“What are you guys doing over here, huh?” she smiled knowingly.

“Oh, you know,” was all that Brad could manage.

Lance continued to send burning stares, casting doubt on the sudden tangent she’d gone off on. But again, she flipped the field, momentarily nullifying the defense.

“Come inside and dance, Brad!” she said. “I haven’t seen you in there at all. Come on in and break it down, dude!”

He rapidly scanned her words for sarcasm and found them clean. But he couldn’t think of how to respond quickly enough.

“C’mon, Brad, don’t be a buzz-kill.” She smiled. “Get in there.”

So stoned was Brad that he still couldn’t muster an answer. He felt unease, like he was yet again blowing another chance with her. And then she was gone, as the whirlwind of smokers made their way back inside, and Amy was swept along with them. Brad still felt wholly immobile, but the sharp gazes given to him by Paul and Lauren suggested they would not accept any more of his weak-ass excuses.

Thus, Brad slowly made his way in the house and then downstairs, but it wasn’t easy for him. The closer he got the more and more his senses were assaulted by the dance music. It seemed to him that, despite the noise, everyone could still talk and communicate easily, effortlessly, except for him—Brad felt like a senseless idiot, like all he could say to people was, “What?”

The beer-bonging crew was on the dancefloor, and Brad watched them in awe. Raza was in the very center of it, doing all sorts of wild shit, breakdancing and so forth. Joe was hilariously trying to copy him. Ronnie was with his girl, and the two looked like they were halfway doing each other while they danced.

His eyes found Amy, as they always did. She was enveloped in the fray, but easy enough to spot with her shining midriff. Other guys had him largely boxed out, of course, and Lance Gill led that charge—who, as far as Brad was concerned, had quickly taken Rob’s place as his new arch-nemesis. Lance looked idiotic while dancing, and this was plain to see, but it didn’t stop him.

Brad stood alongside the bobbing and weaving crowd, but Amy never saw him. He knew he should break in there anyway, and get right near her, and force his body to move. He had no idea what it might do, and frankly it terrified him to find out, but he could try to do it alongside Amy and her shining midriff and see what might happen. She was nice and genuine to him, he felt confident enough in that, so likely it wouldn’t be a total disaster.

In the end though, he simply turned away, and walked unsteadily up the stairs, already hating himself.

The backyard and porch were strangely calm and quiet, with the beer-bonging crew inside. He could only see Paul and Lauren lounging at the table.

“Back already?” Paul asked, still seated at the porch table.

“Man, I can’t dance. C’mon.”

Paul and Lauren returned skeptical glances.

“Besides, that music sucks,” Brad further rationalized. “It’s hurting my soul.” He collapsed onto one of the chairs.

“Brad, settle a debate for us,” Paul said.

“Yeah?”

“You know how when people get high they say they’re gonna go smoke-up? But then some people say they’re gonna go smoke-down. Which is the more correct way to say it? It’s bugging us. Lauren says it’s smoke-up, but I think it sounds slightly cooler to say smoke-down. What do you think? Can you weigh in on this?”

“I think y’all are high as fuck,” Brad muttered as they laughed. But he thought about it anyway, and it clicked soon enough.

“I got it,” he said.

“Yeah?” Lauren asked, intrigued.

“Smoke-up is a verb. Smoke-down is a noun. You smoke-up at a smoke-down.”

Paul and Lauren were completely silent for a few moments. Then, they started clapping.

“So, technically Lauren is correct,” Brad added. “But I’d say both terms have good value.”

“Damn, you are a smart motherfucker, Brad,” Paul said, giggling.

Lauren nodded. “Way to drop the hammer on that debate, dude. Much respect.”

“Thanks,” Brad said. Then he checked his watch. “Damn. I should probably go. It’s past midnight already.”

“That sucks. You got a curfew?” Paul asked.

“Sort of. My parents are already gonna be pissed probably. I practically snuck out of the house to come here and didn’t say shit. I didn’t want to even take any chances of them not letting me out tonight, so I basically just avoided them. It might all catch up to me at some point, though.” He stood up.

“What about Amy?” Paul asked.

All was quiet except for the muffled shouts and beats from downstairs, and some distant crickets.

Brad sighed. “Man, I’ve talked to her for like a grand total of five minutes tonight.”

Paul chuckled. “No, I mean don’t you need to give her a ride home?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Brad moved awkwardly toward the house. “I’ll see if she needs a ride.”

“Good luck.” Both Paul and Lauren said it at the same time.

Brad crept down the stairs yet again, feeling the intensity of the music increasing greatly with each step forward. This time Joe was in the center of the dancefloor, dancing out of his mind. He had his shirt off and he twirled it over his head as part of his ridiculous act. It worked though. Girls were all around him, trying to keep up, each of them very clearly entertained. Brad marveled at how Joe obviously had no thought or care about what he did—he just did it. Brad wished he could be the life of the party, and that he could just go on autopilot like that. The girls seemed to love it. But, it just wasn’t him.

Brad almost got knocked over a couple times trying to get Amy’s attention. Lance Gill, still attached to Amy like some kind of parasite, noticed.

“Amy! Hey! Your boyfriend is asking for you,” he said with a sarcastic grin, pointing at him.

“Who?” she asked.

“Your boyfriend! Brad!”

Amy laughed like that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard, for just a second before turning her head, noticing he was there.

“Hi!” she said, smiling.

“Hey!” Brad replied, acting like he’d seen nothing. It really wasn’t anything.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I’m taking off now, if you need a ride!”

“Oh, thanks, Brad, but I got someone who’ll drop me off later!”

Brad nodded calmly. But inside he was sullen, already sensing the coming torment. She changed that though, by throwing her arms around him in a big hug.

“Thanks again for the ride, Brad!” she said. “You’re a great friend!” Then she let him go and rejoined the fray.

Brad was left enjoyably stunned at her embrace and the feel of her body up against his. Surely, she’d just done it on a whim, charitably even, but she’d done it nonetheless. Unfortunately, it was all badly tainted by the last word she’d said, which rang in his head, over and over again.

He was about to leave when he remembered about Amy’s friend, Jennifer. He scanned the crowded room and spotted her, dancing up real close with Antwann, the two of them sleekly moving and grinding against one another. He couldn’t believe how good they could both dance—whatever they were doing was so smooth and natural, it looked like they had rehearsed it.

He wondered if people actually practiced this sort of thing, perhaps while looking in a mirror or something. It made no sense to him. He couldn’t fathom it.

Nothing made sense to him, though. He was a total outcast. He couldn’t dance, he wasn’t the life of the party—he was just some guy that existed, that lumbered around, that people dealt with.

Brad turned and walked up the steps, thinking he was just the driver after all, and that was all he had ever been on this night.

Outside, he passed by Paul and Lauren rapidly, saying bye to them, realizing he had to get his ass home. He walked through the yard, past the old beach chairs, one of which he realized held another couple making out—of course.

Brad climbed into his car and sat there for a moment with his hands on the steering wheel, his face sorrowful. He didn’t need to hide it anymore.

It dawned on him that he’d likely messed up any chance with Amy yet again. It was perhaps almost as egregious as last night. He put a hand to his forehead, dismayed. It was the drugs that were screwing him up—at least to a degree. He could see it now. They were incurring some kind of cost onto him, there was no doubt. He might be his own worst enemy. It was a grim and sad thought.

The night was far from a total loss, though. He still swam in a lot of good vibes from all his new friends, for he had met many. He felt happy and sad and loopy all at the same time.

Quite suddenly, Brad burst into laughter, relentless laughter. His mind brought back all the jokes they’d had, the cameo appearances all around the table, that ridiculous joint floating around, the beer bonging spectacle—so many classic moments. He couldn’t stop giggling.

Finally, the moment passed, and Brad yawned. It was a deep, heavy one. Then he started the car and drove home.