Because You Love to Hate Me(82)

Then I realized Denic was playing, too. He was down to his boxers.

And everyone was laughing because Steven Kemple had just lost and was completely naked. In my house. Sitting on one of our dining chairs.

I decided then and there I would never eat again.

Denic looked at me apologetically and shrugged. “I don’t know how this happened.”

I mentally counted the layers of Denic’s really nice outfit.

“Apparently you lost at least five hands is how it happened, Denic.”

Then naked Steven Kemple stood up and grabbed my arm. “You can’t watch if you don’t play. Sit down, Powell.”

I was being touched by naked Steven Kemple.

It was all too much.

I hated Steven Kemple so much. But Steven Kemple just would not die.

I tugged my arm free from the grasp of naked Steven Kemple, who made the wise decision to not chase me through the crowded living room dance floor and upstairs to my bedroom.

So, after being scolded not to cut ahead by the half-dozen girls waiting in line outside my bathroom, after walking in on Indistinguishable Grunting Couple having sex in my bedroom, where nobody had ever had sex as a couple (Hair dryer short-circuit, grain silo mishap), I managed to get to my parents’ thankfully unoccupied room and call the state troopers to shut down the party.

I put my face in my hands.

There was a knock on the door.

Denic came in.

He sat next to me on my parents’ bed.

“Dude. I am so sorry about all this.”

“Why are you still in your boxers?”

“Two reasons. First, I didn’t lose, and second, because Steven Kemple put everyone’s clothes in the bonfire.”

“There’s a bonfire?”

“It’s outside, at least,” Denic said.

“That was thoughtful of them.”

Denic nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is Steven Kemple still naked?”

“Totally.”

“I fucking hate Steven Kemple.”

“Dude. Totally.”

When the state troopers arrived at my front door, I answered it, still in my pajamas and soggy, mismatched socks. Unfortunately for me, the responding officer was Trooper Clayton Axelrod, who had kind of adopted me since the day he saved me from Crazy Hat Lady’s dog and then stared at my ass while I got a tetanus shot.

He actually scruffed my hair and smiled when he saw me at the door. It was disgusting. Nobody is allowed to scruff my hair, no matter what size gun you’re carrying.

“Hey, Julian! How are you? How’s your arm doing?”

Every time Trooper Axelrod saw me, he’d ask about my arm, as though it had been miraculously surgically reattached or something.

“Oh. Fine, fine, Trooper Axelrod,” I said.

Animalistic screams rose from the backyard, and the house seemed to be belching out the combined smells of urine, pot, beer, and cigarettes, carried on wave after wave of pulsing EDM, right into Trooper Axelrod’s face.

Trooper Axelrod looked behind me at Denic, who was standing there in his boxers.

“Looks like you boys are having a slumber party!” Trooper Axelrod said.

“No, Trooper Axelrod. Kids are drinking. They’re smoking pot. They’re totally out of control and they need to go home,” I said.

“Ha-ha!” Trooper Axelrod chuckled. “You never do anything wrong, Julian! Just have fun, and don’t stay up too late! What a jokester!”

Then Trooper Axelrod spun around and walked back to his patrol vehicle. He called out over his shoulder as he got inside, “Just let me know if you want me to phone in an order to Stan’s for you boys, Julian!”

Then he drove away.

“How do you do that?” Denic asked.

“I fucking hate myself.”





Sunrises are all about foreshadowing.

The party did not empty out until four in the morning, just when the sky in the east began to pale to a yellowish grey that reminded me of all the vomit in the backyard.

Well, the party didn’t totally empty out. Disgusting Twelfth-Grade Back-Hair Guy in Tighty-Whities had passed out on the floor beneath the dining room table (Unattended open manhole cover). I had to actually touch him to wake him up, and then lie by saying everyone was waiting for him at the Pancake House over on Kimber Drive, and that walking there in his underwear was totally fine with all concerned parties.

He thanked me and said I was the best friend he’d ever had in the world.

Denic and I walked through a minefield of crushed beer cans on the floor of the living room. Outside, in the piss-swamp of my backyard, it looked like we’d been struck by a meteor where the bonfire still smoldered.

Denic stood at the edge of the crater and shook his head. “Those were really nice clothes.”

“They were so nice I wanted to punch you in the face,” I pointed out.

“Well, admit it: you know you’re not going to get in trouble for any of this when your parents come home tomorrow.”

I said, “Yeah. Probably not.”

Denic yawned. “You want to go in and play BQTNP?”

“Sure.”





I’m sorry if this disappoints you, but as much as you and I both may hate him, Steven Kemple did not die that day.