Ok, so I’m going to try this again <click here> for the prologue.

 We like whiskey

We like rum

We’re the grads of ’81.

If by chance

We do not pass

In ’82 we’ll smoke more grass.

Kids are singing that poem to every song on the record player when I arrive at Stephens’s pre-grad party. We decide it should be our unofficial grad song which is fine because the official grad song-The Best of Times by Styx-sucks.

I have no idea who is on the grad committee, but I know that I will never look back and think being eighteen and graduating from high school was ‘the best of times’. It’s a funny thing about being eighteen. There are so many things I’m absolutely certain about. I know what (and who) is right and wrong. I know what (and who) is good and bad. I know that after spending twelve years in school, I’ve been given the basic tools I’ll need to thrive and survive in the world and I know the world is just waiting for me with open arms.

 I’m eighteen. I’ll be graduating from high school in two months and I’ve got big plans. I’m not going to stick around this jerk-water town. I’m going places. I’m going to be a professional roadie. You know, like with big rock bands. I’ll be traveling from city to city and country to country. I want to be one of those of no fixed address guys you read about in the newspaper.  You know the kind of stories I’m talking about, right? So-and-so witnessed the accident or was arrested or was found dead in the swimming pool was a twenty-something male of no fixed address. That’ll be so freakin’ cool. I’ll be setting up equipment, doing sound checks, hanging out backstage, parties all the time and banging groupies. That’ll be the best part. I’ll have a different girl every night. Hell, I’ll have a bunch of girls every night. Roadies get to screen the groupies for the band. Gonzo only wants natural redheads tonight. I’ll need to confirm your red headedness before you can meet him.

Speaking of redheaded hotness, Liz, my grad date, is supposed to meet me at this party, but she ends up having to baby-sit.  I decide to go to the part anyway because…well Stephen’s not the most popular kid in school and he’s told a lot of people about this party. He thinks nobody will want to come, but absolutely everyone is going to be there. I tell myself I should go just in case things get out of hand and Stephen needs help, but maybe I go just because I know things will get out of hand. I take a six-pack of cheap beer, but somebody has already opened Mr. Russell’s liquor cabinet so I pour myself a glass of whiskey. It tastes like liquid smoke.

After about an hour I want to smoke a joint so I go outside. Not out of respect to the Russell’s really, I just don’t want to share with everyone there. I’m out on the front lawn when my buddy Dave drives by. He’s delivering Chinese food from his parents restaurant and he stops when he sees me.  Dave’s my best friend so I don’t mind sharing with him. Besides he’s the guy I usually buy my weed from and he’s always giving me deals so it all works out. Dave’s actually Japanese, but his parents own the Chinese restaurant in town. Dave says us Whities think all Asian food is the same so it doesn’t make any difference. He’s got a hell of a system worked out. His parents don’t speak English so they rely on him for a lot of stuff. They don’t have a clue about anything. Dave pays the waitresses a little extra and they take phone orders for food and weed.

We move around to the side of the house to smoke our joint because Dave wants to tease the dogs. The Russell’s have a kennel that runs along the side of their house…actually; I think it was a tennis court once. In it they keep these two vicious Doberman Pinschers. The thing about these dogs is, a few years ago the neighbours complained about the noise and rather then getting rid of the dogs, they had their voice boxes removed. They still bark like crazy all the time, but now it’s in this hoarse kind of whisper. Dave rattles the fence and blows smoke in their faces when the dogs charge at him.

Yeah, he can be a bit of a shit sometimes, but we’ve always been good friends. He can’t stand the Russell’s though and he tries to talk me into going on deliveries with him. I tell him I’m going to stay at the party for a bit and I might catch up with him later. I go back inside and there’s this girl there. Lynda. It used to be Linda, but she changed it. She’s sixteen and in grade eleven. She’s a little tipsy, but not sloppy yet. I hate it when girls get sloppy drunk, but a little tipsy is OK. So I’m chatting her up. She starts telling me all about her fucked up life and of course I know most of it already because it’s a small town and there’s only one high school. I know all about her living with her alcoholic dad and retarded sister (only you’re not supposed to call them retards anymore), but she tells me all about them anyway. Then she starts talking about Carlos. I should have left right then; shoulda, coulda, woulda, didn’t.

 Carlos is this Greek guy, you know, from Greece. He’s a millwright for the railway and he works in the big machine shop at the edge of town. When he first came here all the girls went ga ga over him. They said he looked like a Greek God. My dad said he just looked like a gawd damn Greek to him. That always cracked me up. Anyway, he starts dating Lynda even though she’s only fifteen and he’s like twenty, but her dad doesn’t give a rat’s ass because he’s drunk most of the time. So, they’re dating for more then a year when he decides he’s going back to the old country for a holiday. And wouldn’t you know it, when he comes back here four weeks later he’s got a hot new wife with him.

 “I saw him last week and he walked right past me like he didn’t even know me”, she says, getting all teary eyed. “I said hi Carlos and he said ‘hi’ then started talking to Broom Hilda in Greek. If she spoke English, I totally would have told her what a prick he is and how he just used me and about all the things he promised me.” The tears start running down her face and I decide not to tell her that her name is actually Frangellica and she’s learning English pretty fast according to my mom.

 “I heard she’s pregnant that’s why he had to marry her,” says Lynda.

 That’s only half true. My mom works part time for the Welcome Wagon; they welcome new people in town and take them little gifts and coupons from local businesses and she was at Carlos and Frangellica’s house when the doctors’ office called to tell her the happy news. I don’t mention that to Lynda either.

 I’m the strong shoulder to cry on so I take her back to my place before she gets sloppy drunk. Bringing girls home is kind of a touchy subject with the grumpies so we sneak in the back door then down to my bedroom in the basement. She tells me she’s on the pill so I don’t need to use a condom and we screw. Just once and she goes right to sleep. I’m looking at her and there’s something I can’t figure out. I’m not a queer or anything, but Carlos is a good-looking guy, even for a Greek and Lynda is, well, plain. She’s kind of pale and mousy, she got little titties, hardly any ass and it’s not like I’ve had a ton of girls, but she really wasn’t very exciting in bed.  Frangellica, now there’s a woman I wouldn’t mind having a go at. She’s got long dark hair, nice boobs, an ass to die for and her face; man, I’d love to rest my nuts on her chin for a week or two. I fall asleep stroking my dick fantasizing about Carlos’ wife.

 I wake Lynda up early. She’s whiny; her head hurts, she’s thirsty, she’s hungry she wants me to make her breakfast. I tell she needs to leave. She wants me to walk her home; she’ll make me breakfast. I can meet her dad and sister. I don’t want any of those things and she gets mad and loud.  She says I’m an asshole just like all men. Just fuck me then kick my sorry ass to the curb she shouts then marches out and slams the door. The grumpies are not amused.

 Monday morning the guys tease me a bit about Lynda. Did Carlos’ big Greek cock stretch her all out of shape? Couldn’t I do any better then banging a drunken chick on the rebound? But it dies down pretty quick. Any sex is good sex, am I right? Besides, that wasn’t the big news from Saturday night. After Lynda and I left the party, Stephen discovered his dad’s liquor cabinet had been raided so he went to the liquor store to try and buy more and he got arrested by an under cover cop. While he was gone the party really got going and one of the neighbours called Mr. & Mrs. Russell…they arrived home right after someone drove a motorcycle into the dog kennel.  

 I hardly even think of her again until the Friday night before graduation. The grumpies take my grad date, Liz and I out for dinner at the Italian restaurant. It’s the only other ethnic restaurant in town and it’s owned by a couple of old hippies from the Excited States (everyone says he’s a draft dodger). Anyway, Lynda just happens to be our waitress. I totally didn’t know she worked there. It’s a little awkward because Liz and my parents all know I banged Lynda, but I hope she’ll just be cool about the whole thing. Everything starts off fine; Lynda’s a smiling cheerful waitress. She brings our drinks and takes our orders. Dad lets us order anything we want and I order rack of lamb because it’s the most expensive item on the menu. Lynda brings out the appetizers and she’s still all smiles. She brings our main course, sets everyone else’s down nicely then slams my plate down in front of me and announces loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear that she’s preggers, that I’m the father and that she’s going to keep the baby. Then she bursts into tears and runs into the kitchen. Nobody has much of an appetite after that.

 Liz still goes to grad with me. Maybe it’s because it’s too late for her to get another date, but I like to think she still likes me. She goes to grad with me, but we don’t have as much fun as we might have, if you know what I mean. After the official dinner and dance I go to a party down by the river, but Liz doesn’t come to that. At the party I chug tequila straight from the bottle until I’m totally shit-faced. I guess I’m lucky that I don’t fall into the river and drown or unlucky, depending how you look at it.

 I don’t remember getting home, but I’m on my bed and still in my rented tux when my dad wakes me up. Early. Mom’s going into town and wants to return the tuxedo while she’s there and Dad wants to have a man-to-man talk with me. There’s no point arguing about it. I get up, have a shower, try to brush the grossness out of my mouth without much success and go upstairs to face the music. I assume I’m in shit for getting drunk and doing whatever it was I did the night before, but I assume wrong.

 He wants to know what I’m going to do now that I’m finished school. I tell him what I’ve been telling everyone for the past two years; I’m going to be a roadie.

 There’s not much stability in that, he says. You’ve got responsibilities now.

 What, Lynda? She’s not my responsibility.

 She’s going to have your baby.

 She said she was on the pill. It’s not my fault.

 Well, it won’t be that baby’s fault. Lynda’s got a grade eleven education and a drunk for a dad. If you don’t pay then it’s my tax dollars that will be supporting that child and I sure as hell didn’t have sex with that girl.

 I sulk and after awhile I mumble that it’s not fair.

 He laughs and says welcome to the real world. He says one way or another I’m going to pay. He says that that baby is going to want and need a father, that since I’m going to be paying anyway, it might as well be me. He says that it’ll be easier for everyone if I step up to the plate now.

 It takes me a minute to get what he is talking about. You mean marry Lynda?? Are you insane? I hardly know her. I don’t even like her. We’re just kids ourselves. How do you expect me to support a family?

 I could get you on at the mill

What, so I can relive your life? This is fucked.

Alice, so drunk he can barely stand…