Last Stop This Town (3 page)

“Are we done?” Dylan asked rhetorically. He didn’t wait for an answer.

S
OON
, D
YLAN WAS
back with his friends, parked in the Walgreens lot across the street from a “package store,” Connecticut parlance for liquor store. The guys were now dressed for an evening out, which meant jeans and a tight white v-neck t-shirt for Dylan, jeans and a striped polo shirt for Noah, khakis and button-down for Walker, and a tie-dye, cargo shorts, and flip flops for Pike. The guys sat in anxious silence for a while with the engine off, windows open, and headlights on. They were waiting for something, and their patience was wearing thin.

“What the fuck is taking so long?” Pike asked, annoyed.

Walker ventured a guess. “Maybe that guy was schizophrenic or something.”

“Yeah, or maybe he’s manning the glory hole around back,” Noah offered with a snicker.

Once again, it was Dylan’s job to rally the troops. “Relax, there he is.”

And there, across the street, staggering out of the liquor store, was a homeless guy. Not the most disgusting homeless guy you ever saw, but pretty close. He was white, at least under the topsoil, with matted hair and clothes that smelled like old shellfish and pee. He glanced over at the Cube, and spotting his partners in crime, waved at the guys.

“Subtle,” Noah commented.

The homeless guy waited for a moment, looking at them for a signal. Then, he motioned, like,
Should I come to you?

Pike answered, though the guy clearly couldn’t hear him. “Yes, fucknut. Cross the street. Walk like an Egyptian.”

The homeless guy started crossing the street. By now, the guys could see he was carrying a brown paper bag, the kind you might associate with a wino. Walker was the first to pick up on it. “Anyone notice something missing?” And Pike was the first to go apeshit about it. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t get it.”

Dylan heaved a big sigh. “I’ll take care of this.” He got out of the car and after a quick round of
Should we wait here?
looks, the other three followed suit.

Dylan stood in front of his car and waited for the homeless guy to reach him. (No way Dylan was setting foot in the package store parking lot.) When the guy finally stumbled up to him, Dylan forced a smile like they were old friends. “Hey, man. What happened? Where’s the beer?”

The homeless guy thought about it for a second then replied, “They were all out?” In actuality, the words were halfway between a statement and a question. Clearly this dude had a lot bigger fish to fry than trying to lie convincingly. The guys looked at each other, confused.

“You were supposed to buy a case of MGD,” Dylan reminded him, holding back his anger. “What’s in the bag?”

The homeless guy held up the wino sack with its mystery contents. “This is much better. Good for you,” he pitched.

Pike swiped the bag and pulled out a bottle of low-grade, candy-flavored swill. “What the fuck?! We can’t bring this!” he yelled.

Noah couldn’t help but laugh at the absurd liquor choice.

Then the ever-observant Walker noticed something else. “Uh, guys… It’s open.”

Now even Dylan was pissed. He took a step closer to the guy, escalating the threat level. “Did you drink some of this?” he accused.

The homeless guy threw up his hands. “Shit, Grissom, you got me. I thought we was in this together.”

Dylan rubbed his brow. This had turned into a disaster. Ask a homeless guy to buy you beer and you expect a prompt and courteous transaction. But what’s the point of arguing now, when the deal’s already been fucked up beyond repair? Dylan tried to cut his losses. “Just give me the change.”

But for some reason, this really set the guy off. “You said I could keep it!”

Pike stepped in. “Yeah, if you bought us a case of beer! Not a liter of fucking Boone’s Farms Mixed Berry Schnapps!”

The homeless guy shook his head. He tried to offer these kids the benefit of his years of experience, explaining, “This shit will get you fucked
up
!”

Noah checked the time on his iPhone. “Let’s just go.”

The guys turned to leave, willing to chalk this up to “you win some, you lose some.” But the homeless guy’s eyes were still glued to that bottle in Pike’s hand.

“I ain’t done with it!” The guy made his move, darting toward Pike with a seemingly impossible burst of speed, swiping the bottle back. Pike furrowed his brow in an
oh, no you didn’t
look and easily repossessed it. They locked eyes and struggled over the bottle for a second. But then, as if in slow motion, the bottle slipped from their hands and smashed on the ground.

The homeless guy was incensed. “You dick!”

And with that, he reached into the back of his pants and pulled out… a log.

That’s right. Actual shit.

The guys’ eyes went wide.

“Watch out!” Dylan shouted.

“He’s got a doodie!” Noah screamed.

The guys scrambled for the car as the insane hobo
whipped his shit at them
. The four of them dodged the projectile like their lives depended on it (thank you, Gym Teacher Murphy) and the log hit the windshield of Dylan’s car with a tremendous SPLATTT!!!

The guys jumped into the car and slammed the doors shut.

Pike saw the guy reaching again. “He’s got another one!”

“Where’s he getting all this shit?!” Walker screamed.

Noah yelled back, “He’s probably been saving it up for weeks!”

Dylan started the ignition. “Let’s get out of here!”

SPLATTT!!! Another literal shit bomb hit the car and some fragments went through the open windows.

Pike screamed. “I think some went in my mouth!”

The guys frantically tried to close the windows, but power windows only go up so fast. “Hurry! Hurry!” Walker pleaded.

The windows finally sealed shut, and Dylan peeled out just as another log hit the rear window.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES AND
eight quarters later, the windshield wipers smeared the poop across the glass as the all-night car-wash jets attempted to dilute the brown stain. Inside the Cube, the guys watched the turds wash away to the inappropriately mellow Iron and Wine song, “Belated Promise Ring.” Pike took a big swig of red Gatorade and started gargling with it. He opened the door a crack and spit it onto the pavement. Pike shuddered. “He probably has AIDS.”

Walker reassured him. “You can’t get AIDS from eating someone’s poop.”

But Pike was in no mood to be placated. “Well, you can get fucking hepatitis! Or—or—fucking… who knows what’s in that guy’s shit!”

“Other… Men’s… Sperm…” Noah reminded him with a self-satisfied chuckle.

In a few moments, the guys could see out of the front windshield again. But they were still short a case of beer and time was running out.

Walker looked at Dylan for guidance. “So now what? Find another homeless guy?”

Dylan pointed to the clock on the dash. “We’re screwed.”

Sure enough, the clock read 9:04.

Pike, still in a foul mood, launched into another tirade. “God, I fucking hate Connecticut! No other state in the nation closes the liquor stores at fucking nine p.m.”

“They do in the South,” Walker corrected.

“Well, they don’t in Massachusetts,” Pike countered.

Before that idea could take hold, Dylan shut it down. “We’re not driving to Massachusetts.”

Noah looked defeated. “So, what, we just go home?”

But Dylan wasn’t giving up on the evening just yet. “No, let me talk to Marco.” He turned on the ignition.

When they arrived at the sprawling Tudor at 7 Westmore Lane, there was already a line of people trying to get into Marco’s house. And what’s more, they were all carrying some kind of alcohol, whether a case of beer, a liter of vodka, or even a bottle of champagne. At the door wasn’t Marco Rosenbaum himself, of course—Marco was far too busy to play bouncer at his own party. Nope, it was Chuck Zambrelli, a big, hulking member of the football team. Not smart, quick, or agile enough to be the quarterback, running back, or receiver, Chuck was one of the human blocking dummies that made up the offensive line. And tonight he was taking liquor bottles for entry, as was the custom at Marco’s.

The guys waited in line anxiously until they finally got up to the front door.

“S’up, ladies,” Chuck bellowed, making himself laugh.

Dylan stepped forward. “Look, man. We had a case of MGD lined up, but there was a mix up. Long story short, we don’t have anything. Can we give you cash this time?”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem.” Chuck was not mentally equipped to deviate from his specific instructions.

It looked like an impasse. Three lacrosse players behind the guys held up a bottle of Stoli and Chuck grabbed it from over Dylan’s head. He waved them through and they squeezed by the guys to get into the party. A quartet of sophomore girls struggled to pass a case of Smirnoff Ice to Chuck. Dylan moved over slightly to let them get by, too.

Chuck looked at Dylan, who clearly wasn’t going away. Chuck had to do something. These four losers looked pathetic and were blocking the flow of traffic. Chuck rolled his eyes and said, “All right, you little bitches, just wait here.” Then something wafted into his nostrils. Chuck sniffed the air for a second. Did someone poop their pants? Chuck closed the door on them.

As the guys waited, Dylan turned to Noah and brought up a sensitive subject. “So. You going to talk to Sarah?”

Noah was defensive. “Why do you care so much about me and Sarah?”

“I
don’t
care.
You’re
the one who keeps whining about her. I’m just saying, get it over with. Make a clean break. It’s gonna hurt a lot more later.”

Pike seconded the motion, “Rip that pus-filled band-aid off!”

Noah relented under the peer pressure. “All right, shut up already, I’ll talk to her.”

Only Walker was thinking ahead. “If you guys break up, do you think she’ll go out with me?”

Noah just glared at him.

Then the door opened once again. It was Marco Rosenbaum, in the flesh. Marco looked like a young Donald Trump—he even had the hair. And who wears a tie to a high school party? But Marco thought of himself as less of a host or a guy whose parents go out of town a lot, and more like a concierge. It was his job to provide entertainment and meet the needs of fun-starved high school kids.

West Hartford didn’t have all-ages clubs or trendy late-night bookstores or open-air promenades for teenagers to hang out in. And Hartford, the insurance capital of the country, wasn’t much better. So the desperate students of Hall High School were forced to make their own fun at whosever house was available, and that usually meant Marco’s. All Marco asked in return was liquor. Or drugs.

“Hey, guys. What happened?” Marco asked with a note of fake concern.

“It’s a long story…” Dylan started.

But Pike gave the executive summary: “Some homeless dude bought us mixed berry schnapps but he went mental and threw his poop at us.”

Marco folded his arms and with one hand stroked his nonexistent beard thoughtfully. “Hmm, fascinating. Have you lined up any publishers for that story?”

Dylan pleaded. “Can we pay you cash instead?”

Marco smiled. “Guys. Come on. Are you new in town? Did your dad just get transferred in from Worcester?”

Noah saw Dylan was out of ammo and like a good wingman came in guns blazing. “Come on, Marco. We’ve probably bought you ten grand worth of booze over the years. We’re graduating next week. Cut us some slack.”

Marco was not the type to be persuaded by such sob stories. “Sure, no problem. Maybe I can get you a warm compress and massage your balls while we’re at it.”

Then, in a last-ditch effort, Dylan tried to appeal to his humanity. “Dude, it’s Saturday night in West Hartford. Where else are we going to go?”

Marco thought it over. Not so much because he felt like being nice, but more so because they guys were holding up the line and time was money, Marco relented.

“Fine. Twenty bucks. And you bring double to Beach Weekend.”

Marco was of course referring the party of the year taking place next weekend at his parents’ beach house in Rhode Island. Graduation was the following Wednesday, so Beach Weekend was the last party of high school. All the seniors went, as it was
the
unofficial send-off every year.

But that was next weekend and this was this weekend. Marco was letting them into the party without the entry booze and Dylan sighed a breath of relief. “Thanks,” he said as he pulled out a twenty.

Marco smirked ever so slightly. “Each.”

The guys rolled their eyes, but they knew they had no choice. They all pulled out their wallets and paid twenty bucks to get into Marco’s house.