Page 49 of The New Year's Party
Chapter 24
Ted
My aim is all over the place—even Olivia was better than me, but whatever, I’m having a good time, man.
“Ted the sharpshooter, ladies and gentlemen,” says Phelps dryly.
“Fuck you,” I say in a friendly way.
I pass the BB gun to Doug, who’s now had two tequila shots, to the chagrin of the poor suckers who actually believed in him. Easy fix for that particular problem, by the way—don’t believe in anyone. Deceptively simple. Maybe one day I’ll write a book. When Doug grasps the gun and our faces are close, I whisper, “Hey, let’s go to the Dog House and do some more lines,” and he says, “Shut up, man, not now,” which is code forwait ten minutes.
I back away and notice Hellie is glaring at me with her arms crossed over her puffer coat, but I give her a wide grin and a thumbs-up. I like Hellie, though I’ve always kind of pitied her. I think we could’ve gotten along. Too bad she doesn’t like me.
People are so negative about drug usage, but as long as you have the money—and don’t get caught—I don’t see the problem. Life sucks. It’s really fucking vicious, and if you don’t think so, it’s a function of your fucking privilege and you’ll find out eventually. Me? I’ve known since I was a kid. Feeling like shit is man’s natural state, considering that we’re living in hell.My whole philosophy of life is that mankind is in a perennial search for a remedy—something, anything—to minimize the amount of time you feel like shit. I’m not here to maximize my lifespan. If I die young, who cares? I’m here to ride as high as I can while I’m here. I’m quite clear-sighted about big-picture stuff like this. In a parallel world, I’m definitely a hotshot philosopher, and they pay me to think about this kind of stuff. Publishers would be wise to approach me, actually—I could write a hell of a self-help book, if the money was good, a fresh new perspective instead of the old recycled shit they’re always putting out.Think positive? Dear God. No good can come from encouraging people to lie to themselves at that level. But I digress.
For a while, my remedy was religion. That was middle school. My aunt drove me to the Presbyterian church in La Porte. There was a Sunday morning class for tweens led by Mr. Max, this old guy who was really into Uno. The card game. He was always rewarding us with candy for memorizing verses, whichIwas really into—speaking of which, isn’t sugar the original drug? Man, I could have riffed off that in Speech and Debate... Anyway, Jenn and Bunny were in that class too—it was kind of a pre-youth group, with a corny name... Young Lights? Junior Lights? We met in the smelly basement of that old church with the nasty sofas and the broken foosball table. It’s unbelievable to think about me, Rebecca, and Jennifer together, that the three of us would be aligned for any portion of our very different lives. Then again, isn’t that childhood when you look back on it? A big oldwhat the fuck?
By the end of eighth grade, my aunt went off the deep end with conspiracy theories and militia shit, so my mom put the kibosh on me riding with her to church and I figured I was probably an atheist anyway. Thankfully I was just figuring out a new way to get high: school performance. I was starting to realize how smart I was. School was a game I could win atwith my eyes closed. The praise, the grades, the admiration—I lived for that shit. Fast-forward four years when it was time to graduate and I realized... why the hell did I try so hard for four entire years of my life? Take this, for example: I was a national finalist in Speech and Debate; Domestic Extemporaneous, to be exact. Super big deal, right? But run a cost-benefit analysis there for a second. A day or two of feeling like king of the world... but it took you four fucking years of backbreaking work to get there. Doesn’t take a genius to realize the math is off. Now, drugs? Drop some cash, and in a matter of minutes, you can feel just as good as if you actually were king of the world.
This would be the crux of my self-help book. I’d call itThe Happiness Revolution, and it would be 100 percent mindfuck. I would destroy every middle-class lie anyone has ever been told. You’d feel high just reading it.
“Something’s wrong with this gun,” spouts Doug as he tries, unsuccessfully, to fire his second shot.
“You have to pump it, man,” I say, miming the correct motion as Doug turns the gun back and forth like it’s beyond him, as if he hasn’t just watched all of us do this very thing. He’s never been the smartest cookie in the tin.
While Bennett helps Doug pump the gun, I notice that Allie is standing off to the side, kind of removed from the group. I know technically she’s Phelps’s date, but since it’s nothing serious between them yet, she’s fair game.
“Hey, pretty lady,” I say, sidling up to her and stuffing my hands in my pockets.
She’s cute. Short and curvy, with thick dark hair that frames her face. “You’re Ted, right?”
“Can I get you anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Coke, weed, political opinions. A good time?”
She laughs. “I hope you don’t meanyou’rethe good time.”
“No?” I say innocently.
“You accused someone of arson at the dinner table. Kind of a mood-kill.”
“I didn’t accuse her of arson. All I did was share thefactthat, once upon a time, she askedmeto commit arson on her behalf,” I correct. “Though logically, if she wanted it burned down, and then itdidburn down, it leaves one to wonder...”
“You’re a troublemaker.” Allie purses her full lips and plants her hands on her hips. She has that hot I’m-a-teacher-and-I’m-going-to-reprimand-you vibe. I wouldn’t mind a little reprimanding, especially if we can take off our clothes first and the reprimanding involves some light corporal punishment.Light. I’m not talking full-on BDSM—tried that once, no thanks.
“So tell me about you,” I say in my most suave voice. “You work in town? You have your own place?”
“I work at McKinley Elementary in South Bend, where I grew up. And I’m living in my parents’ house,” she says, then adds, “Temporarily.” Like she’s a little embarrassed.
“No shame in living at home,” I say. I’ve done it myself a few times, until Mom kicked me out again.
“I mean, I don’t livewithmy parents. My mom died recently. I moved back home to help Dad take care of her. Then after her death, he started declining, so I just moved him into an assisted-living facility last month. Now I’m cleaning out their house so it can go on the market.”
“You’re not going to claim the castle for yourself?”
“We have to sell it to pay for the assisted living.”
