Bill parades around the living room in a pair of frayed and tattered white Jockey briefs with holes in them. “Jesus, Bill,” I say. “That’s disgusting. I hope you’re not actually planning on wearing those tonight.”
“This is my one and only pair of lucky underwear. They’re like some kind of chick magnet. I swear, every time I wear them, I get lucky,” Bill says.
“Well, my Mother used to say that no matter what else I’m wearing, I should always wear clean underwear, in case something happens and I have to go the hospital,” I say.
“What the Hell kind of logic is that? If you go to the hospital the first thing they do is stick you in one of those gay, assless gowns,” he says. “ You might as well be wearing assless chaps.”
“Hate to burst your bubble. But why even say ‘assless’ chaps? Aren’t all chaps assless?” I ask.
“Whatever,” Bill says, pulling on a pair of new jeans. “All I’m sayin’ is these are my lucky drawers. Then it’s straight back to my room and my water bed and rubber sheets with ‘Get Down’ written on them. You coming out with us tonight?”
“I don’t think so. I’m totally fried. I ended last night and started this morning at Magnolia’s Thunder Pussy,” I say.
“Now there’s a place to eat if you want to clog every artery,” Bill says “and what a freak show! Last time I was in there it was right after bar time and some tweaker was having a conversation with the coffee creamer on the counter. He was all Senor Wences talking with Pedro, opening and closing the creamer lid – ‘S’awright? S’awright!”
“Well what do you expect at that time of the night?” I say “Anyway, they got the best home fries and huevos rancheros with green hot chilis in the universe. It’s the ultimate hangover cure. I hope you’re not planning on staying out all night. We’re playing the Denver Barbarians tomorrow. We need you in the scrum.”
“Don’t worry about me” Bill says, “ I can drink all night, play rugby the next morning and then go out and do it all again.” Bill finishes snapping up the pearl buttons on a paisley print rodeo shirt and starts pulling on a pair of cowboy boots.
“Yeah, like the way you were upchucking your scrambled eggs on the sideline 2 minutes into the game last week. I see you’re steppin’ out in the shit kickers,” I say.
“Hey bro – these are Tony Lama snakeskin boots. Even sexier than my lucky drawers,” Bill replies. “Well, I’m off. I’m meetin’ Spike at The Broken Drum.”
“The Broken Drum? You mean The Drunken Bum. That’s the kind of dive where Bukowski would have gotten shit faced. You’re not going to get lucky there,” I say.
“We’re only starting there. Cheapest place to get shooters of Cuervo. Jump start the evening, then it’s onto greener pastures,” Bill says as he steps into the doorway.
“What should I tell Kim if she comes looking for you?” I ask.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Bill says “I know what you’re thinking and you better not. You can look, but you better not touch. Adios amigo.” Bill gives a little salute, then he’s out the door.