Make It Fast

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friendship / life / stories / words

‘Make it fast’ I said to the nurse as she was unwinding the bandages on my right hand.

About a week ago I had gone drinking with a couple of buddies and the night had been kind of crazy. It all started innocently enough with sushi at some new hotspot in town; the sake had flowed generously and our conversation was getting more excited. This tends to happen with us. Now that we all have mortgages, families and proper day jobs, we do not get to see each other so much and when we finally do, we need to get all these things off our chest. After the initial somewhat necessary statements about the general state of things, we move into the familiar territory of our longtime friendship. Based on shared memories and adventures, on intimately shared fears and desires, the bond we have is still solid. True, it gets stretched by all kinds of obligations, but on the inside, we are still that wild bunch of fourteen-year-olds sneaking beers and dreaming of getting into Maggie Peterson’s pants, the prettiest girl in class. Not that we would really know what to do once we got there, but the thought itself was titillating enough and an integral part of our mutual masturbation sessions. I guess when you share something that intimate you never really become unglued and though we lost a few companions along the way and all of us have less hair and more fat on our bones, we will always be connected.
From the sushi place, we went to a bar, then a club and after that it gets fuzzy. Little trips to the restroom because Michael was audacious enough to buy some coke. It had been ages, so I was eager to participate. You cannot not enjoy the clandestine feeling of huddling in a stall, using the car key of your beat up family Volvo and inhaling deeply, feeling the burn in the back of your throat. Back at the club silly dancing, surrounded by beautiful girls – way too young – the coke rush keeping the melancholy at bay and any awareness that our moves had been out of style for at least a decade. We get in a taxi, the night rushes by as the city lights blur, I am laughing out loud although I don’t know why.
The next thing I remember is waking up on the sidewalk with blood coming from my mouth. My hand should be hurting by the look of it, but all the alcohol I have ingested seems to dull the pain. I dragged myself to closest ER and a pretty nurse reprimanded me for not acting my age while dressing my hand. I grin stupidly, happy because another chapter has been added to our story.

The Author

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.”  Miss Piggy

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