The Ritual

 

(I always go to a restaurant on Fridays.)

On Friday evening at 10:30 p.m., I took Rice-Boy Larry to the chicken house for a gnosh. It’s our weekly ritual. He met me at the crosswalk in front of our apartment building, and we walked to the restaurant when the light turned green.

He said, “There was a drunk woman dancing in the middle of the street around 7 p.m. I was really worried that she might get hit by a car.”

I shrugged. “That happens. It’s all the soju these people drink. It rots their brains.”

“You used to drink soju all the time.”

I held up my hands in a sign of surrender. “That’s true. I was young and dumb at the time. But these days, my poor old body can no longer handle the joy juice. I have to stick to beer.”

“You should have seen her. She was strikingly beautiful.”

I smiled. “Trust me. Those are the types you want to steer clear of. The last thing you need in your life is an alcoholic spouse. Find a nice Christian girl who takes the Scripture seriously.”

“I never said that I wanted to marry the lady. I simply said that she was attractive.”

I smoked a cigarette in the parking lot while my boy ordered the food. We got the same as usual. A platter of fried chicken and a pitcher of beer. It tasted great.

Larry said, “Mom left me a message.”

“What does she want?”

“She got a ticket for running a red light, and she thinks you should pay.”

“Why? I wasn’t the one driving the car.”

“She says that it’s your fault. The traffic camera snapped the image more than six weeks ago.”

“Tell her to take a picture of the fine and send it to me. I want to match the dates before I give that woman a dime.”

“She won’t take my phone calls. She’s too busy working in the factory.”

I laughed out loud. “Somehow, I kind of doubt that she even has a job. Do you ever notice how the story always seems to change every time she tells it?”

“What do you want from me? I’m just a kid.”

We got back to the house at midnight, and I made a beeline for my bed. I was so exhausted that I could barely keep my eyes open. When I eventually woke up at 8 a.m., I soon noticed that I had a pounding headache. Sadly, a pitcher of beer is too much for an old eunuch like me. Soon, I’ll be reduced to drinking Shirley Temples. That’s what age does to you. Life certainly isn’t for pussies.

I took the elevator to the bottom floor and bought a cup of coffee. But the damned convenience store had raised its prices by more than fifty cents. I promised myself that this would be my last time frequenting their jip-joint. Who the fuck do they think they are? Starbucks?

I called my mother on Facebook Messenger while puffing on a Marlboro.

She said, “You’re not smoking again, are you?”

“Yes, but only about three or four a day.”

Mom sighed heavily. “You’re gonna die of cancer just like your father.”

“Everybody has a bullet with their name on it.”

“Listen to the way you talk. Who are you? Steve McQueen?”

“I was never a huge fan. I always thought he was a bit overrated.”

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