The telephone rang, screaming the lyrics to some Linkin Park song.
I screeched to a stop halfway through my bowling approach.
“Sonuva -…” I thought – aloud.
It was my roommate – pickled again.
I was happy he was at home, because otherwise, I might have tried to fit my bowling ball down his throat.
“Dude!” he said, slurring like a dog that licked a toad. “Where the fug are you?”
His voice, when he’s drunk, is the same tone as a cat in heat.
“What do you want?” I asked. Pissed.
“I need you to pick me up. Stereo Weedwagon is playing at Hi Fidelity!”
“I’ll be right there!” I said, and hung up.
I turned off the phone, put it in my bowling bag, and went back to the thing I loved most – chucking a ball down the lane, crushing pins.
When our league was over, the female midnight league started.
I sat watching the girls get drunk, ordering them wine after wine.
If I was going to miss Stereo Weedwagon, I was at least going to get lucky!