Alarmingly Strange Stories
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The last drop of the piss warm beer drained out of the bottle and down my throat. It’s too cold out to drink it frosty, even if it would taste better. But, taste wasn’t important right then, just needed to get drunk to keep warm. I chunked the empty bottle into the cow pasture just off the dirt road and pulled my jacket tighter around my body. The dark green army jacket covered in the names of obscure bands I tended to pride myself on knowing, simply because no one else does, was much too thin for the winter I could feel coming, I hate winter. I stomped my feet in another vain attempt to heat myself up and let out an exasperated gasp of visible breath. “You gonna finish this up sometime soon. It’s freezing.”Paul looked up from the lug nut he had been trying to work loose, obviously annoyed with me. “You could help.” “I’m no good at that shit; you’re on your own there.” “Well, then quit bitching about it, and we’ll get out of here that much faster.” I lit a cigarette and leaned back against the car, but Paul quickly scolded me against getting too comfortable while the car was still on the jack. Opening another beer, I peered down the desolate road, watching for cars that never drove this way. When that beer was gone and Paul was still having difficulties with the tire, I began to get irritated. “Anytime today would be nice.” I told you, either help or keep quiet.” “Why should I help? I did the dirty work last time when you got the car bottomed out on that boat dock. This is just a flat tire, come on.” “I’m working on it. Damn thing’s stuck.” “I could be using this time to write something, I should have brought some paper.” “When was the last time you wrote anything, not since you were like fifteen wasn’t it?” “I write things all the time.” “You start writing things all the time, but it doesn’t count unless you finish them.” “You’re one to talk how many paintings have you finished recently; I haven’t seen a single one." We aren’t talking about me; you’re the one with delusions of being a writer.” “Still, don’t talk until you’ve done better, fucking hypocrite.” With that, I tossed another empty bottle into the cow pasture. “I’m just acquiring life experiences still, what good is it to write when you don’t have anything really interesting to say?” I said. “When are you going to have something interesting though?” “Dunno. Someday.”“And, in the mean time, I get stuck entertaining your boring ass.” “You like it.” “Yeah.” “Besides, who else in this bum-fuck town could you share the anguish of an artist’s soul with." Paul started laughing. “Kyle, neither of us is an artist yet.” “What, you think you have to make it in order to count yourself as an artist?” “No, but I do think you have to produce something to be one.” “Bah! A technicality. I don’t concern myself with such things.” “Sure you don’t, the only thing you concern yourself with is beer.” “That’s so very untrue, I concern myself with girls too.” “How could I have forgotten? The great tragic lover, who can’t get a date to save his life.” "Fuck you.” Finally, the tire was changed and Paul and I hopped back in, speeding off into the cold, dark night. Paul quickly downed a hot beer and threw it out the window as the road became paved again. I took my time on this one; I was drunk as it was. “Lemme ask you something, Kyle.” Paul said. “Go for it, I got nothing to hide.” “What would you be if you weren’t a ‘writer’?” “A punk.” “You already are a punk.” “No, I’m a writer; I just listen to punk.” “Just have to be difficult don’t you?” “Nah, just gotta be me.” “What a sorry sack you are too.” “Thanks, pal.”

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