Cory would show up in his 03 Mach 1, drunk, and have Emily start it by blowing into the breathalyzer. Usually he’d have to yell at her how to do it several times because she was so fucking stupid she’d forget.
I was nicer then.
More tolerant.
More better (nah).
I was in a car club, well really I showed up to meets.
I had (still) a sweet 1993 GMC Suburban, teal, tan interior. 4×4, hell even the AC works. Long-tube headers into Flowmaster 10s dumped out the side. Loud is an understatement.
Jesus Christ even writing this is hard. But you’re a bit blind when you’re young.
Anyways, we became friends.
Well, we’d drink beer every weekend and get sloshed in my garage.
I had just got my sweet ass Suburban and I’m drinking beer in the driveway with them.
They keep eyeing my shit.
What the fuck man.
More than normal.
Emily started crying.
They leave.
The next day I’m at home busy as fuck doing server updates.
I get a knock on the door.
Cory and Emily with a 30 rack of Busch Lattes.
“Heeeeeeey man, what’s up brooo.”
I’ll condense the details.
Emily’s mom died.
He begs me to help them move Emily’s dead mom’s garage apartment full of stuff. Two hours away in Houston, in the middle of the summer, on a Thursday.
“Bro it’s all already packed up but my Stang can’t fit all the stuff can you please help us?”
“Sure man if you cover gas and rent a U-Haul trailer.”
He proceeds to get mad.
Emily proceeds to cry.
Should have told them to fuck off.
I didn’t.
But I also didn’t pay for anything. Miraculously they ponied up the cash. Guess they skipped dinner (30 rack) for it.
The next day.
I pick them up from their one bedroom apartment. I got up early and picked up the U-Haul dual axle trailer.
Rev the TBI 350 to announce my arrival as every redneck does.
They shuffle out smoking and drinking beer. It’s 8am on a Friday.
Nice.
They hand me a beer.
We shotgun breakfast.
Radio cranked I throw on That Smell by Skynyrd.
We hit the highway for a two hour drive.
It takes four hours.
We have to pull over every 45min for Emily to piss, usually on the side of the road, and get a beer at a gas station. Her mom died so I mean fuck it, why not.
We finally make it to the third ward.
I back the trailer in like a pro.
Emily looks at my watch.
“OH MY GOD! It’s already noon o’clock.”
She lights a joint.
Holy fuck man. Guess it’s lunch time.
We shuffle up the crooked ass stairs.
She puts the key in the door.
It snaps off immediately.
Cory starts screaming at her, “WOW WAY TO GO GENIUS.”
I grab my needle nose from the Suburban’s toolbox.
Fiddle fuck around and get it open and extracted.
We finally manage to get in.
Nothing is packed.
Shit everywhere.
Dirty dishes, clothes piles, dust, mouse turds, sprawled out trash and cat hair. Fucking lazy ass cat, apparently. He greeted me with a “mao”. Stupid ass Garfield looking motherfucker. Cigarette butts in various Folger’s cans and ashtrays, most improvised, countless boxes of Marlboro lights, I mean there had to be fucking hundreds of empty packs.
Jesus H Christ.
She starts bawling.
Cory starts screaming at her, “WOW NOW YOU DONE RUINED MY WHOLE FUCKING DAY.”
These people are 33 and 32 years old.
I was like 25? And uncomfortable as fuck.
I legitimately don’t know where to start or what to say so I do the default. Pop a beer and light a ciggy in the kitchen, they follow suit and soon the screaming and crying stops.
We start with surveying this shithole. Some furniture is ok so we start loading the trailer with it. Emily and I are moving shit when Cory runs out of cigarettes.
“Hey man, I’m gonna hit the corner store and get a pack.”
We keep loading, a fucked off couch, a coffee table, a dresser, a few night stands and various pictures. Decide the bed and mattress can stay, still we are going up about 20 steps of L-crooked stairs that is frustrating as fuck because Emily does not understand basic geometry or have any spacial awareness. I’m mad but not yelling.
Cory is still missing.
There’s some dead flowers in a vase on the kitchen table.
She cocks her head sideways, “Wow this is such a pretty glass can.”
Bro. Goddamnit.
She turns to me suddenly when we’re going through the kitchen drawers, “Wade why are you not yelling?”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Sorry.”
We are packing up more boxes.
She turns again.
She lifts up her shirt and flashes me with her tits. Saggy tits, beer gut on display.
Umm.
“You like them? I wish you were my boyfriend instead of Cory.”
“What the fuck Emily, cut it out, let’s pack this shit so I can get the fuck outta here.”
She starts bawling and chugging more Busch Light. Marlboro lights going down like a train going uphill.
This is the worst day I’ve had in years.
The apartment stinks, it’s a fucking wreck, my ‘friends’ are insane, drunk, conniving, and grieving.
About an hour after he left Cory shows back up. Drunk as fuck holding half a pack of cigs out to me like he had the key to the city.
“Fuck yea bro trailer is looookin’ good.”
Emily starts crying again.
Cory and I load a few boxes.
The fucking Garfield-lasagne-eating-looking ass cat wouldn’t leave me alone.
Eventually Emily thought she had enough stuff from her mom’s place.
The final thing she took was a framed picture of her as a little girl in her mom’s lap.
Brutal.
We shuffle in the Suburban.
Stupid fucking cat jumps in the driver’s seat with me.
Son-of-a-bitch thinks he can handle all 215 horsepower.
I sigh.
I pet him.
It’s 6pm.
I put the big bitch in drive and point the hood West.
Nothing but a small block chevy screaming, popping of Busch Light every 20 minutes, and this cat in my lap looking up at me with the laziest “mao” I’ve ever heard.
Cory is looking through the CDs on the sunvisor.
“Bro what the fuck is this shit? C-O-D-A that aint no word.”
“Led Zeppelin, put it in the player, man.”
“What? No fuckin’ way I don’t listen to shit that has words I don’t know.”
“Cory put the fucking CD in or I’m going to pull over and throw out all your beer.”
“NUH UH.”
“YES HUH.”
Emily started crying.
Then saying, “Guys, guys, guys c’mon please… I gotta piss.”
Fuckin hell.
I pull over.
Cory starts yelling some gibberish.
I push in the CD and skip right to Hey, Hey What Can I Do.
We rode the 12 string guitar right back into hell without another word except for—“mao.”
These days on Friday—Oscar and I drink beer and listen to rock in the garage.
When we are really feeling it we’ll pull out copies of Hot Rod Magazine.
Fuck car clubs.
Cory is dead. Combination of Busch Light and computer duster.
Emily married a 70 year old man.
I took the cat home.
His name is Oscar.
He’s a good friend.