It was another Friday night and we didn't have anything to do. By we, I mean the regular crew of deadbeats, Beth, Janet, Houser and me. We all met at Beth and Janet's apartment, stared at the wall, did a half dozen rounds of "what do you want to do?" then we settled on the same old thing. We pooled our resources for a case of cheap beer, a liter of vodka and two movies. I volunteered to get the movies, Houser decided he'd get the beer and booze. I walked to the movie store, drinking a couple 50 ml bottles of brandy, which I bought on special the day before at the liquor store for a half buck a piece, on the way. At the store, I headed for the western section, which was right next to the entrance to the room featuring the x-rated movies. The store had an epic selection of smut. It would take years for even the most dedicated aficionado to work his way through them all, and at five bucks a rental, it'd take that long to pay for his back-alley habit. Usually I just saw thick eye-glassed loners sneaking in and out of the back room, clutching the tickets in their hands and dashing to the counter. But for some reason, that night there was a steady stream of young people, especially couples. It struck me as a great idea for a date. If Miss Lucky and I didn't feel like using our imaginations, the VCR would be provide some excellent suggestions on how to productively spend our evening. I was pondering renting "Rio Bravo" when an especially attractive couple walked out of the porno room, the girl giggling into her boyfriend's sleeve. She was a small blonde with long legs. She wore a baby-tee, a miniature backpack and platform sandals. Her fella was a tall, dark-haired frat-boy type with a sweatshirt, shorts and Birkenstock sandals over socks. The girl made eye contact with me, I winked at her, and she quickly looked away. I cleared my throat, and started singing softly, "Young Love! First Love! Oooowahooooo, filled with real devotion!" Boyfriend's face reddened and he made a move toward me, but Blondie held him back. I shrugged and said, "What?" They beelined it to the counter. I smiled. I felt warm inside. I browsed the store, and finally settled on "Fistful of Dollars" with Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef and "The Big Sleep" starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I loved the end of "Big Sleep." Bogart gets the drop on his nemesis, who happens to have two men with machine guns waiting outside to gun down the next man who goes out the front door. Bogart knows this and starts putting bullets into the criminal, first his left arm, then his right, until he staggers out the front door, only to be snuffed by his own men. I've watched that scene dozens of times. On the walk back to the girls' place I finished my last 50 ml of brandy and tossed the empty into a dumpster. As I approached the liquor store a pair of policemen were waving a flashlight at a couple of rummies who didn't want to move on. After a few persuasive words the two men decided to walk down the block until the cops drove off, then they turned and returned to their previous location. I guess they liked the cops' witty banter and were anxious for some more. I looked in the window and saw Houser had already left. I climbed the stairs to the apartment and walked in without knocking. The room was decorated with beer can pyramids and mayonnaise jars of cigarette butts from a forgotten gathering. I announced the movies and the group was nonplused. I popped "Fistful" in the machine and grabbed a beer from the fridge. We spent most of the evening in silence, sipping vodka and chasing it with cheap beer. It seemed the only reason we gathered anymore was because we were terrified of being alone. In the past we thought we were an exceptional group of people, a band with the golden key that opened the treasure chest of truth. We were the only ones with anything to cling to in the meaningless universe. The rest of the suckers could hack away at their dreary lives; we knew it was all a squirt of piss in a plastic cup. Now all we did was sit and blink in our dark corner of the world, checking off barren nights in front of a fuzzy television picture. We were tired. I knew it wouldn't be long and I'd have to get the hell out of here, change my scene, my clothes, my hair, my face. We sat and watched Eastwood ride into town. We watched him gun down dozens of men in the streets and saloons. We watched him ride off into the sunset, a hollow man ennobled. We drank more beer, and then we drank some more. About halfway through "Sleep" Beth announced she'd had enough, stretched and went to her room. Janet didn't last much longer. Houser admonished me for picking out a couple of snoozers for movies and I told him he could go somewhere and hump his fist. Then he left. I finished the rest of the beer, used the bathroom and left. Back on the street the night was still. I didn't feel like going home. I'd drank all night and didn't feel a thing, certainly not enough so I'd pass out once my head hit the pillow. The thought of lying alone staring into the dark with only my neglected thoughts to keep me company terrified me. I walked to the pub, had a seat at the bar and ordered a big beer. The bar was empty except for a couple arguing in the back booth. I drank my beer while I watched a bunch of jackasses from Florida drive their big-tired, souped-up machines through a huge mud bog. The things people will do to kill time. I ordered another beer. As I raised my glass someone smacked me in the neck. I turned and it was Sweatshirt and Shorts from the video store. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath helped me on my way to alcoholic oblivion. "So how were the movies?" I asked. "What'd you get? 'Cornhole Patrol?' or 'Vaseline Alley?'" "If it isn't Tony Freakin' Belafonte, the singing son-of-a-bitch," he said. He took a couple steps backward, steadied himself and offered to kick my ass. Blondie was leaning against a booth behind him with mascara smeared all over her face. She was trying to hold back a laugh, then she fell down. She climbed to her hands and knees, spat on the floor, then stood back up. "Maybe I should take her home," I offered. "She looks like my type of girl. I wasn't so sure earlier, but seeing her now, she's definitely the kind of gal I'd take home to mom." The bartender moved toward us and told us to take it outside. Sweatshirt grabbed his crotch and spat. He seized Blondie by the arm and they staggered out the door. Sweatshirt looked in the window, bared his teeth and yelled something I couldn't hear. He was probably wishing me a good evening. I took a drink of my beer. "I thought they'd never leave," I said. The bartender stared a hole through me. "You too, asshole," he said. "Hit the bricks." I picked up my beer and drained it. I got off my stool and displayed my middle finger. "You are first in my heart, prick," I said. He pointed at the door. "Get the hell out!" So I left. Out on the street it was still quiet, except for the charming couple. The girl carried her sandals in her hands and the boyfriend shouted endearing pet names at her like "Slut!" and "Bitch-whore!" Another happy couple. I walked home, examined my empty fridge and picked up a book. I couldn't concentrate so I decided to lay down. I turned off the lights, pulled up the covers and stared into the dark. I remember hearing the birds chirp and seeing the morning light before I fell to sleep.