Chapter 61
Sixty-One
My hangover clangs in my head. Getting vertical was a big mistake; it hurts to fucking breathe, let alone move. I crumple over the kitchen counter and let my cheek rest against the cool tile. God, this blows.
I stare longingly at the coffee machine but can’t even muster the energy to make a pot.
My mom is clearly not here, or she would have woken my ass up, most likely with an attitude.
Oh yeah. She told me she was going windsurfing today.
I would’ve joined her if we hadn’t stayed up partying for well over twenty-four hours—a brand of degeneracy we’re doing more and more.
It’s the blow, breathing life into every party and accelerating us into hyperdrive.
We’ve swiftly gone from needing a gram to an eight-ball to a quarter ounce and no one seems to be questioning it but me.
Cocaine is damn enticing, a high that amps you up instead of bringing on the munchies or dragging you into sleep.
Like a miracle drug, it whisks you right out of drunk, so you can hit the beer hard again.
It’s kind of perfect, except for the restless, gnawing energy…
and the desire to claw your eyes out when it’s all gone and you start to crash.
We’ve taken to smoking weed to come down or popping downers, and it’s not lost on me that this can’t go on forever, that we’re teetering on a slippery slope. It’s unhealthy. Irresponsible. And too much fun—aside from the hangovers.
Can’t forget getting caught drunk driving a couple of years ago.
It’s a miracle I’ve kept that big-ass secret from my parents.
I was very fucking lucky. At eighteen, I was technically an adult but three years under the legal drinking age.
They threw me in the drunk tank, gave me a slap on the wrist, and let me go.
I’m careful now. I never drive if I’m over the limit, but that doesn’t mean I’m a saint. Or sensible.
Questions creep in more frequently about what the fuck I’m doing…and what do I want to do with my life?
I don’t mind working for Leo at the Chevron with Remy and Vinny. I still love solving car problems. But would I rather work only on muscle cars instead of Pintos, Volvos, and Pontiacs? In a fucking second.
I chose not to attend a four-year college, unlike Jeremy and Terry. Jeremy’s destined to be a politician, and he’ll be a good one, too. Terry’s already breaking records at Cal, and we’re hoping he finds his way to the major leagues, as crazy as that would be.
As for Remy…that bastard has a trust fund and rich folks, and I’m not sure what the hell he’s doing slumming as a mechanic, aside from irritating his parents.
Vinny’s the only one like me, working a job until he figures out what else he’s going to do.
It’s not that I look down on my career choice or think more of my friends for sticking it out at college.
I’ve always known the traditional university degree wasn’t my thing.
But this isn’t either—long term. I jones to be outside, and if I could figure out a way to blend that with a job, it would be ideal.
Kickass. Perhaps even stoke some happiness into the mix.
I think back to that day on Nate’s boat.
Remember how much it spoke to me, how it planted the idea I could combine my love of the ocean with a job.
I need to give that more thought…understand what options I could pursue.
Even though there’s no life clock, I hear the ticking nonetheless, spurring me to pull my shit together before winding up dead after a night of senseless debauchery.
And I will. When my head straightens back out.