Jake & Bill eat old pie
“Saturday nights aren’t supposed to be like this,” Jake says. He’s talking to the snake. Bill isn’t there because Bill is out with his girl.
Jake is drunk for the twenty-ninth night in a row. Ever since Bill brought him that bottle of Southern Comfort, he’s climbed into one after the other. There’s only enough room for one there, so Bill can go out with his girl all he wants. Jake is fine. He falls asleep next to the snake’s heated tank.
“What’s up, fuckers?” Bill says, when he walks into the room. Jake wakes up and feels a bit sick but would never say it. Just keeps swallowing to balance his guts.
“What time is it?” Jake asks. His tongue feels like it fell asleep in the snake tank on the hot rock.
“It’s pie o’clock!” Bill says. He’s high and happy. Probably got laid, Jake thinks. Then he unthinks it because of the trip to New Jersey and the smell of wet leaves and pine needles and bourbon. Swallows again.
Bill produces four pies from the factory. Apple, cherry, peach, and shoofly. He pulls a box cutter from his pocket and starts to hack away at the peach pie. The blade goes through the aluminum pie plate and stabs him in the thigh. Blood soaks through. Bill laughs. Jake laughs.
Jake knows he has to eat a slice or else Bill will call him a pussy, so he takes the first slice of peach pie. It tastes like plastic and the crust is soggy.
“What’s the expiration date on those?” Jake asks.
Bill mocks in a high-pitched voice. “What’s the expiration date on those?” Bill takes a bite and chases it with milk, straight from the carton. A single white dribble runs down his chin.
This acts as a paddle inside of Jake. It stirs. It stirs.
Never once has Bill helped Jake throw up. This time is no different.