His house wants to throw a party, and he agrees, knowing that he won’t be there for much of it. People arrive, he says hi, he leaves. He arrives at senior night at Firkin’s Tavern, his friends rush up to him. They get drinks together. He purchases a bottle of beer, walks to the back by the pool tables. He sees more friends, says hello to all of them. He stops at one friend, a guy, who is with another guy. The guy he knows is nice. The guy he does not know says, “Whoa, why do you have a bottle? How much was that?”
He replies, “I don’t know; three dollars?”
The guy he doesn’t know tries to call him out. Tries to play big. “You think you’re cool? This right here,” he says, furnishing a plastic cup, “was a dollar fifty.”
He’s usually nice. He tries to make good first impressions. And there is no reason to hate this guy that he doesn’t know.
The guy he doesn’t know continues. “Why would you buy a bottle when Miller is on draught for a dollar fifty? You must think you’re cool.”
At first he wants to say, What’s wrong with buying what you like? Why does it matter?
But he sees an opportunity. This fool that he doesn’t know is making this situation cutthroat. This guy without manners asks for it. Practically begs.
The words repeat in his head: “You think you’re cool?”
“Oh, so by cool you mean ‘has more money.’” He looks up and down at the guy that he doesn’t know, and looks at himself. “You’re fuckin’ right.” He turns around, walks away, is approached by all of his girlfriends. More girls than the other guy will ever touch in his life.
He overhears what the guy says: that he’s a dick, that he’s conceited, that that wasn’t necessary.
Oh, but it fucking was.
