7
Cade
Milo’s apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad, complete with two weeks’ worth of takeout scattered all over the counters. He shoved aside an empty box from a Chinese restaurant and said, “You overthink things, hermano. So, I’m going to help you out.” Milo opened his freezer and slammed a bottle of tequila on the counter space he’d just “cleaned.”
I was beginning to get a clearer picture of how this night was going to go.
“You’re going to help me stop thinking completely?”
He unscrewed the cap and said, “Exactly.”
I picked up the bottle, and the glass was freezing against my fingertips.
“You could have at least gotten decent tequila. What is this? There’s a freaking pony on the bottle.”
He snatched the bottle out of my hand and said, “I’ll buy more expensive tequila when you get over this Bliss girl.”
I never should have mentioned her name to him. He had this tendency to drop her name into casual conversation as a way to numb me to it. So far, it was a bit like becoming numb to shock treatments. It got more bearable, but I wasn’t going to line up and ask for more anytime soon.
He pulled a few shot glasses out of a cabinet, and I said, “So this is therapy, Milo-style?”
“Yep. If you’re not wasted, it’s not working.”
He filled two shot glasses, and slid one over to me. The other he held back for himself. I gestured to his glass and said, “What are you drinking to get over?”
“You’re not getting it, hermano. We drink so that we don’t have to talk.” I nodded and took my filled shot glass. I started to lift it to my lips, and he stopped me. “These aren’t ordinary shots.”
“Oh, are they magic shots? If I pour one out on the busted concrete outside will a beanstalk grow?”
“Oh, they’re magic, all right,” Milo said. “They’re supposed to make you grow a pair.”
In true Milo-fashion, he laughed at his joke before I could, and did a celebratory dance. I shook my head and said blandly, “You’re hilarious.”
“I know, I know. But seriously, these shots are special.”
I eyed the tequila that I was sure to regret in the morning and said, “Especially bad.”
He picked up his shot and said, “Each one you take is a commitment. If you break that commitment, the gods of alcohol will punish you with a hangover so bad you’ll think Satan himself took a dump on you.”
“And if I don’t take them?”
“You can spend the night being a depressed white boy while I go get laid. Your choice.”
It was pretty depressing when you put it that way. I sighed and gestured for him to continue.
“Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to get a girl’s phone number tonight. If you fail, may the alcohol gods curse you with the lowest alcohol tolerance known to man—so low that an anorexic baby could drink you under the table.”
I laughed, but picked up my shot. “I don’t think anorexic babies are a thing.”
“How do you know? I’m sure they don’t like being called chubby and having their fat pinched more than anyone else does.”
I took the shot just to get him to shut up. It tasted like rubber mixed with lighter fluid mixed with death. When my throat no longer felt like the burning inferno of hell itself I said, “Okay. A number. I can do that.”
He smiled and poured the second shot.
I eyed him. “If you say my punishment for this one is herpes, I’m out.”
He handed me the glass, laughing. “Relax, Winston. I’ll leave that between you and your giving tree.”
And now I could never read that book to my kids at the after-school program again.
“You should never have children,” I said.
“What makes you think there aren’t a few little Milos running around out there already?”
“Because Armageddon hasn’t happened yet.”
Milo punched me in the shoulder, spilling half the shot. He topped off the glass and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to do something out of character tonight. Should you fail, you’ll be cursed to a lifetime filled with premature ejaculation.”
“Seriously, man?”
He held up his hands and laughed, “Hey, the alcohol gods giveth and they taketh away.”
I glared at him but took the shot without comment. I’d thought it might taste a little less heinous the second time around, but it was still the most offensive thing to ever assault my taste buds.
Milo finished his own shot with no issue.
“How often do you drink this stuff?” I asked.
“Pretty often. One of my uncles works at the factory in Mexico. He sends me coupons. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“If I ever get used to it . . . shoot me.”
Milo ignored me and said, “Numero tres! For this one, amigo, I want you to get pissed off. You’ve been too damn nice about this whole thing. I don’t care if it’s over a spilled drink or just how ugly some dude’s face is—but by taking this shot, you promise to let yourself get angry tonight.”
“What if I get pissed at you?”
He shrugged. “You probably will, but I guarantee it won’t be because I’ve got an ugly face.”
“Right, just that ugly shirt you’re wearing.”
“This shirt is awesome. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”