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blow jobs.”
    I laugh and look around to gauge the reaction from the rest of the room, their faces swimming past in a whirl of color, and they all concur, nodding and laughing. Oh yeah, that’s true, she can totally give great head. Squirrelly’s boyfriend Fred says, as serious as a news anchor, “It is true, man. She could suck a watermelon through twenty feet of garden hose.”
    Michelle is leaning back on the couch with a slight smile, her eyes half closed in her drunk/stoned euphoria.
    â€œI’ve gotta take a piss,” I say, already halfway to the bathroom door.
    There’s a girl passed out in the tub. I try to maintain balance, urinate as quietly as possible so as not to wake her.
    8-Ball is in the living room, obnoxious as ever, when I get back from the toilet.
    â€œYou call that weed? Check this shit out!”
    He hoists two fifths of gin and a huge bag of herb. “ This is weed,” he proclaims. “Moroccan kind bud.” Moroccan kind. Sure it is. 8-Ball is so full of shit. Tabitha has admitted to me that his real name is Brad, of all things. And contrary to my first impression of him that night I went to Rocky and got devirginized, I’ve learned that he’s the biggest bullshitter this side of my stepdad. 8-Ball— Brad —has spent a good amount of time and effort creating his own legend. He’s always telling the story about how he used to be a Marine and was dishonorably discharged for spitting in a drill sergeant’s face before taking a tank AWOL in Kuwait. And everybody buys that crap like it’s on sale.
    And then there’s his toadie, Kyle. Kyle, like 8-Ball, wants everybody to call him by his military nickname. Kyle’s nickname is “Rat,” and it fits him well. He’s only like five feet tall and has beady littleeyes. He’s always fruitlessly trying to pick up women by lecturing about military operations and weaponry. Of course, he’s just over-compensating for his miniature dick, with his combat boots and his crewcut. People with crewcuts can’t stand when somebody has long hair. I’ve been growing my hair out, trying to achieve a new look, and Kyle— Rat —always has to make some kind of smart-ass remark about how I look like Bozo or Krusty the Clown. As soon as he sees me stumble out of the bathroom, all stoned and stupid-grinning, he starts in on me.
    â€œCheck it out, 8-Ball,” Rat yells, like a good sidekick. “It’s Krusty!”
    â€œKrusty has green hair, dumbass,” I say, more a knee-jerk reaction than an attempt at direct confrontation. Rat turns a slight hue of red.
    â€œWhat did you say to me, motherfucker?” He gets right in my face. Looking up into it, anyway.
    Was that out loud? I can’t believe I said it myself. The line between interior monologue and actual speech has been blurred and now nothing can keep the liquor from talking. I laugh in my own defense. It was only a joke, guy. But Rat isn’t having it.
    â€œI asked you what you said , clown.”
    â€œLeave him alone, Rat,” Michelle says.
    â€œYou don’t need to be getting all bent outta shape, Michelle baby. I’m not gonna ruin your little boyfriend’s precious face, but I am about to kick him in his fucking dick. You don’t know how to use it anyway, do you Bozo?”
    â€œFuck you, Rat,” I hear myself say.
    It’s 8-Ball’s laugh, I think, from behind me, that punctuates my brazenness. This pisses Rat off even more. He’s red as my head. My red fucking hair. I’d rather be dead than red on the head.
    And then all eyes shift from the confrontation in the middle of the living room, among the crumpled chip bags and empty plasticcups, to Squirrelly emerging from the bedroom wearing only a long t-shirt. Fred follows close behind, zipping his pants.
    â€œWhat the hell are you screaming about, Rat?” Squirrelly demands to know. “I have