Attach ments(17)

“You know, the usual.” Lincoln had called Justin at the hospital where he worked in marketing.

Lincoln didn’t get why a hospital needed a marketing department; who did it market to, sick people?

“Are you still in school?” Justin asked.

“No, I graduated …again. I’m back in town, living with my mom, you know, for now.”

“Hey, man, welcome home. Let’s get together. Let’s catch up. I’ll be honest with you, I could use the company. Are you married?”

“Not even close.”

“Good. I swear to God, every other fucker has flat-out deserted me. What am I supposed to do, go to the bars alone? Like some pervert? I’ve been partying with my little brother, and it’s no fucking good.

He borrows money, and he always gets the girl. He still has hair, the little shit.”

“That’s why I was calling, actually,” Lincoln said, relieved that Justin was already taking charge. “I work a lot of nights now, so it’s hard to get out, but I thought we could try to get together, maybe …”

“Let’s do it, homeslice. Do you work tomorrow night?”

“No. Tomorrow night’s great.”

“I’ll pick you up at nine, is that cool? Is your mom still in the same place?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lincoln said, smiling into the phone. “Same place, same house. I’ll see you at nine.”

JUSTIN PULLED UP in the biggest sport-utility vehicle Lincoln had ever seen. Bright yellow. Tinted windows. Justin leaned out the driver’s side and shouted, “Dude, come on, you’re riding shotgun.”

There were three or four guys already sitting in the back. Lincoln thought he recognized Justin’s little brother. He looked like Justin, but a little taller, a little fresher. Justin himself hadn’t changed much since high school. A short guy with crinkly eyes and dirty-blond hair. Clean Polo shirt. No- nonsense jeans. An immaculate baseball cap. He used to have a contraption in his dorm room that would perfectly curve the bill of your cap.

“Look at you,” Justin said, smiling. He could smile and talk without ever taking the cigarette out of his mouth. “Just fucking look at you.”

“It’s good to see you,” Lincoln said, not quite loud enough to be heard over the car stereo. It was Guns N’ Roses, “Welcome to the Jungle.” Lincoln couldn’t see the speakers, but it felt like they were under him.

“What?” Justin yelled, leaning out the window to exhale some smoke. He was always really nice about that. If you were sitting across from Justin at a table, he would always blow the smoke behind him.

“Where are the speakers?” Lincoln shouted. “Are they in the seats?”

“Hell, yes. Fucking awesome, right? It’s like having Axl Rose in your asshole.”

“You wish,” someone shouted from the backseat. There were three backseats. Justin held up his middle finger and kept talking.

“Don’t mind these shitheads. I had to bring them, it’s my turn to be designated driver. They won’t kill our game, though, they hang in the kiddie section.”

“No worries,” Lincoln said.

“What?”

“No worries!” Lincoln wasn’t worried. He didn’t have any game to kill.

They drove into the suburbs and stopped at a strip mall, in front of a place called The Steel Guitar.

“Isn’t this a country bar?” Lincoln asked.

“It used to be, back when everybody was into line dancing. Now they only do that shit once a week.

Thursdays, I think.”

“What do they do the rest of the week?”

“The usual. This is where the girls go, so this is where we go.”

The place was already packed. There were people on the dance floor, and loud hip-hop music was playing—the ugliest kind of hip-hop, all thumping and shouting about luxury cars. Justin found a tall table near the dance floor and motioned to one of the waitresses, a woman wearing a bandolier full of shot glasses. There were bottles of alcohol clipped to her belt. It all looked really heavy. “Two Jägermeisters, miss,” Justin said. “Thank you.”

He pushed a shot toward Lincoln and held his own in the air.

“To you, Lincoln. The graduate!”

Lincoln clinked his glass and managed to down the shot.

“I thought you were the designated driver,” Lincoln said.

“I am.” Justin lit a new cigarette.

“I thought that meant you didn’t drink.”

“No, that means you don’t get drunk. Or you get drunk early, so it can wear off …” Justin was already ordering two more shots and scoping out the bar.

It was big, practically cavernous, and everything was painted black. There was a haze machine somewhere and black lights everywhere. An expensive-looking metal guitar sculpture hung in the dark above the dance floor.