It was one of those mornings you wake up and you don’t know if you’re naked or what time it is or even where you are. As I glanced around at my surroundings I found out I was at my place. The clock on the wall told me it was almost quarter after ten. I felt disoriented and closed my eyes to try to sleep again. It didn’t work. I estimated I got an extra twenty minutes though. Twenty minutes at least. My eyelids felt heavy like I’d been in a deep sleep.

Neither the hour hand nor the minute hand had moved an inch. It didn’t feel like I’d gotten enough sleep, but is there ever enough?

Never the less, I rolled out of bed and rubbed my eyes to get the lazy bastards to stay open. My hands ran down my cheeks, over the beard that’d grown from last week’s stubble. I usually didn’t let it get past a five o’clock shadow, and rarely let it graduate from that to stubble; but a beard is useful in New England during winter. Plus, being out of work, I could grow whatever style facial hair I wanted. I treated winter like a bear who drank and took painkillers recreationally.

I ran a bait and tackle shop up the road from a couple big lakes and right at the edge of a pretty wealthy neighborhood. The kind of place where if they didn’t have a bait shop around all the dumb trust fund babies would be putting caviar or kobe beef on their lures.

I took a look at myself in the mirror, focusing on my facial hair. It was more grey than brown. The ways aging sneaks up on us. Getting invited to less house parties and basement shows and more funerals and weddings. Ever since I’d opened the bait shop, I was getting invited to a lot more weddings and funerals. On one hand, I had the only bait shop for about twenty to thirty miles so I did get to see a lot of the same faces, on the other hand, who the fuck invites the guy who owns the local bait shop to significant life events? Yeah, I gave your son a free miniature tackle box key chain, sure I’ll be one of your groomsmen at your wedding. There are some social stratospheres I’ll never understand, like the people who will readily publicly broadcast their private lives to anybody they can. I made a Facebook a couple years ago because of this one ex-girlfriend of mine and regretted it immediately. Within a month, I felt like I could’ve written biographies of over a dozen people I’d graduated high school with – and their kids and pets too. I deleted it and realized social media wasn’t meant for me.

I gingerly walked out to the kitchen and found a note on the kitchen table with my name written real big at the top. I picked it up:

Yo that girl I’ve been talking to that I told you about last night said she was down to hang out and get lunch today

Sorry I didn’t wait til you woke up but I had no clue when you were gonna wake up. 

Thanks again for letting me use your car. Here’s the stuff I said I’d leave for ya for lettin me use the car.                                                                          Be back around like 6 or 7

Ted

Next to the note was a pill and a couple joints. I picked the pill up and my memory reproduced an image of Ted talking to me the night before about wanting to hang out with this girl but not having a car because his was in the shop. I vaguely remembered agreeing to let him take my car after he offered a 30mg Percocet and some bud. Good job, fucked up me, you got a pretty good deal out of this. (At this point I still didn’t remember that the girl lived about 45 minutes away)

Ted was my roommate and friend who I’d met a couple years after high school from hanging out with some of the same people. He was a musician and sang and played guitar in this band Porches and Plains. It was good music and Ted was good with a crowd. He was also a real dick about his band.

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