Roaches crawled on the grease-stained, once white, then yellow, linoleum floor while Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” played in the background. It was the Usual Sunday Morning Hangover Routine — you could have called it a ritual.
They did it every weekend — the party would start on Saturday at Debra’s, the blonde, old, stripper friend who was known for having the biggest tits in high school. This was a title Debra wore proudly, and she made sure to have regular maintenance done to keep up the good name. She sold her ass (and tits) every Friday, which afforded her the extra cash to be able to pay for her plastic surgery and extravegant Saturday nights with Randy, the big, dumb jock from her high school days who had a hairy chest (and ass). Debra was self conscious about her age, so she counted on Randy (and the boob jobs) to help her feel thirty years younger.
They’d celebrate like when they were sixteen — sausage-finger sized coke lines, red wine (the cheapest bottle), and some crystal meth to get funky. Of course, she had to fork out the cash for all of it, because Randy never worked a day in his miserable fucking life. Had a job interview at the Burger Station Whack Shack when he was 24, only after his Mom, god rest her soul, finally made him apply there because she was going to lose the house after the state of Illinois cut off her social security check.
When she passed, Randy didn’t have anyone else to take care of him, the house was gone, so he packed up his guitar, the half drank fifth of Jack Daniel’s he’d stolen from the 7-Eleven on the way back from his Mom’s funeral, and a clutch purse he finagled off her dead body. It had something like $77 bucks left in it. He took that and TO THIS DAY he’s lived in her 1977 Ford Ranchero, never having a bed to sleep in, and only a small cot to look forward to on Saturday when he’d go down to Debra’s.
Word has it, he was always in love with her. Hoped she’d eventually just give in and let him stay with her, but of course she wouldn’t have him. Not for anything other than a piece of good ass (which he was, the dipshits always are). Debra was a strong woman, made her own choices, albeit they weren’t the best choices, but keeping Randy at a distance was a decision she was sure of. She fucked him on the weekends, even shared her prescription meds with him while he was there, but she would not dedicate her life to him, no matter how many times he proposed to her in the middle of a packed house at Denny’s.
Randy didn’t have shit to lose, so he stuck it out. Played the long game — went there every damn Saturday, left on Sunday in the Ranchero, while Debra was passed out on her famous, floral patterned couch with fake wood trim that you’d find in any old house. Filched her loose change on the way out — mostly just pennies and dimes.
And you can bet, if there was even only just one cigarette left in her pack of Pall Mall Reds, he took it, kissed her goodbye, felt her up one last good time, and then did it all again on Saturday.