Quote of the Day:

Among TB’s excuses for neglecting the TBU lately is that I am actually “working on something.” It will probably wind up being a collection of stories, except you know how in almost any book there is a disclaimer stating something to the effect that “This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person or event is purely coincidental.” I won’t be able to use that disclaimer. What I’ve got so far is all made up, but if you are an ARB, or if you know an ARB, you will recognize “similarities” between the characters and certain ARB’s. What follows is something I got to thinking about this morning and it may go in the collection. This is just a first draft of the first part of an idea; I hope I can make it better eventually. Please stop here if you are offended by foul language.

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“How’s my back look?”

“You’re good, dude.”

“Well, I’m plannin’ on sittin’ right here on top of this picnic table and drinkin’ as long as I can, so if you decide to go back and take a shower before going out tonight remind me to put some more sunscreen on when you leave.”

“I’ll be right here with you counselor. I got nobody to impress.”

“I love this fuckin’ place.”

The two dudes on the picnic table were still getting used to the fact they’d had their last Spring Break several years ago. But they still managed to get a few days sandwiched around a weekend at the end of April to go over to Florida and drink and chase girls and remember what it was like before. They sat at opposite ends of the table and a collection of dead soldiers was already filling the space between. The taller one with the bigger, but well-tanned beer gut sat hunched with his elbows on his knees, a Corona dangling from his fingers between his legs, the condensation occasionally dripping down and caking stray grains of sand on top of his left foot. The other one wore a sweat and salt stained Atlanta Braves cap to conceal his prematurely balding head and picked up a paper Coca-cola cup stuffed with paper towels and spit with experienced nonchalance.

“That’s disgusting dude.”

“Your mother likes it.”

The lawyer took a swig of beer and chuckled. “So what did you tell your Principal?”

“I told that bitch I get five sick days and I haven’t taken any and school’s almost out so I’d see her fat ass Tuesday or Wednesday and she shouldn’t bother with a sub ’cause those dumb shits they gave me this year wouldn’t even realize I was gone.”

“In other words, you called in sick this morning and apologized for the inconvenience.”

“Exactly. What did you tell your boss?”

“I said I needed a couple of days and did he mind. He said “you’re a professional, I don’t care when you get your work done as long as it gets done, have fun and don’t bother me with shit like this next time.”

“I shoulda went to law school.”

“You won’t be saying that come June.”

“Damn right.”

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes and nursed their beers. The lawyer finally set his bottle between them and walked away without saying a word. The Braves fan lifted his eyebrows and watched him leave and put his own empty between them on his side and picked up the Coca-cola cup and spit. Left to his own thoughts, he reconsidered quitting early so he could go back to the room and shower. He’d pretty much given up finding a decent girl for the time being, but he wouldn’t mind getting laid. Then again, their track record at places like this wasn’t too damn good, so what the hell, might as well just enjoy getting fucked up and diggin’ on the band. The lawyer returned as suddenly as he had left and handed him a beer and said “look over there in front of the Port-o-lets.”

“Day-um.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Why don’t you go talk to her, counselor?”

“Conditions ain’t right.”

“Pussy.”

“Well then why don’t YOU go talk to her if you’re such a badass?”

“Conditions ain’t right.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

“I think your shoulders are starting to get red.”

“Dang. Rub some of this on me.” The sunscreen hung between them for several seconds as they stared blankly at one another.

Eventually, “Fuck you counselor. Not here. I’ll get a reputation and there won’t be a bitch on the panhandle willing to jump in the sack with me.”

“There already ain’t a bitch on the panhandle willing to jump in the sack with you, Coach. If I miss a spot and get skin cancer and die I’m coming back and hauntin’ your ass.”

“Maybe it’ll help me pick up a goth chick.”

The lawyer’s beer was already getting warm in the bottom so he slammed the rest and placed the bottle on Coach’s side with a flourish. “Your turn, make sure they get us a cold one from the bottom and make it snappy.”

The coach got up and went the long way around via the Port-o-lets and smiled to himself. “Gonna be a long night.”