Third down

You’ll tell me life isn’t fair, and I know that. But this is how it played out for me.

I've been running sideways, parallel to the goal line, for years now. Every so often there's a whistle on the play, and today I've set the ball down in Bolt's basement. It's WASP heaven... you know, it's cool in summer, the colours are subdued and cheerful, the couch is covered in ass-worn fabric that suggests to me it once had the starring role in the living room, but has been put out to pasture in the rec room, where its real life has begun. The three of us are seated on it: me, Bolt, and the bowl of popcorn between us. Bolt rests his hand in it, even between munches. Whether this is just out of ignorance or actually some sort of passive-aggressive territorial dominance thing, I don't know. I reach; he relents. But as soon as my hand is full of the stuff he's been sweating on and leaves, his is right back.

The carpet is extremely woolly; it feels good under my feet. The room's dark because Bolt insists on that when he watches movies. Not that we're really watching this one. It's on... it's running... but it hardly captures the imagination of either one of us. He says, "I'm working on this commission. Did I tell you?"

Through a mouthful of Bolt-flavoured popcorn, I mumble, "I dunno; what is it?"

He holds a handful of popcorn up to his mouth like it's a microphone and speaks into it. "It's this girl sitting on a fence in the countryside. Some guy in Texas wants it. Sent me, like, fifty bucks, U.S." Done speaking, he stuffs the popcorn into his mouth, now free for other duties.

"Nice."

"Nude pose," he adds.

"Cool."

Someone gets shot on screen; we pause to indulge ourselves in the end of a fictional life that's already imbued with more meaning and substance than our real ones. The man expires. Bolts says, "I'm thinking of asking Pat to pose."

I turn and look at him, his features dancing in the shifting light of the television. He doesn't move, except to finally shift his eyes to meet my gaze. "Think she will?" I ask.

One shoulder shrugs. "Prob'ly. You know what she's like after a couple beers. Everybody's seen her take her shirt off."

Bolt, I know, has on occasion seen more than that. Pat loves to tease him. It's clear she doesn't really like him. But she likes to lead him on, and for guys like us, that's enough. Paying her this compliment will, we both know, probably get him what he's after, at some point during the 'posing session'. Emotions flash through me, excitement for him, envy, and then a sudden disgust. A generation ago, guys our age — twenty-something — would have been well on the way. Decent jobs, probably married, family started... not sitting in the basement of the parents of one or the other of us, waiting for life to suddenly happen and contenting ourselves with whatever sexual opportunities presented themselves, however sad and desperate. I mean, fuck, is this as good as it gets? Is this all life has in store for guys born at the butt-end of the 60s or the ashtray of the 70s?

I have to ask it. "Think she'd let anyone else sit in?"

He gazes at me out of the corners of his eyes again, hand perched possessively in the bowl. "I dunno. I can ask. She might. She's kind of vain." He lifts his hand and nudges the bowl at me. "Fat chicks usually are."

Yeah, lucky for us. I think it, but I don't say it. Neither of us is catch either.

"Did Lare tell you he's coming today?" I ask.

"After he gets done with his pick-ups and deliveries," Bolt says. Larry is really more my friend than his, but Bolt's place has become kind of a nexus for us. I'm not sure why. Of the three of us, Bolt has the absolutely worst relationship with his parents. I fully expect to see him on the news some night, covered in blood and being led away in handcuffs ranting. I never really appreciated the meaning of the word "shrew" till I met his mother. As for his father, the man might have been carved out of ice, painted boring, and brought to life by someone feining an incantation reading out of the phone book. And yet, out of the three of us, it's Larry who's never home. I mean, he still lives at home, but aside from sleeping, he's there about as long as it takes the put on pants and flush the toilet, sometimes even in that order. Of course, of the three of us, he's the only one with a steady job. Right now, mine is "call me when you need me". Bolt has none at all. Aside from making $50 to try to get into Pat's pants, that is.

The bowl is empty, and Bolt lifts his feet off the coffee table. "You want a can of Coke?"

"Sure."

He pads off, up the stairs. He calls, "You wanna order a pizza?"

"When Larry gets here."

"Okay."

I hear him moving around in the kitchen above me, in a house that belongs to someone else, raiding a fridge stocked with other people's money. I get up and wander to the tiny window near the ceiling and I can just glimpse the sky, with its clouds skating by, busily occupied with getting on with whatever business clouds do.