Daniel McConnell rolled to his right, partially, waiting for gravity to take over so he could get out of bed. "The Queen Mum herself could kneel before me, mouth wide and waiting, and I could not properly present myself."
Sometime during his teenage years, when drugs and alcohol and hangovers became a regular part of his life, Daniel McConnell began gauging his state of morning-after non-being by his inability to achieve erection, even when tempted by the Queen Mother. Today was no different. Saturdays never are, because Fridays are never different either: a potent mix of hard liquor, enough marijuana to blister his lungs, and of course, cocaine. Weekends with Gyp meant cocaine, and since he lived with Gyp, and since Gyp’s job of screwing dealers for blow didn’t have a generous vacation plan, Gyp was always there. "Gy-yp! What’s for breakfast, honey?" Daniel called out in his best Nick-At-Nite-husband-returning-from-work voice.
Gyp answered with her middle finger as Daniel shuffled into the living room. Gyp wore only a barely-long-enough t-shirt and was bent over the coffee table inhaling more of last night’s party while "I Got You" played through the stereo.
"What’s that?"
"Coke."
"I know it’s coke; I’m not talking about that."
"The music?"
"Yeah, the music."
"Split Enz."
"I know it’s Split Enz."
"Rhetorical question?"
"Yes, rhetorical question."
"So was that," she said with a smirk, putting her face back down over the coffee table.
"What’s next? Wall of Fucking Voodoo? Jesus, Gyp, what’s wrong with this picture? You’re 27, you’ve got your face in a mirror of blow, you’re wearing nothing but a t-shirt, and you’re listening to Split Enz."
"What part of that don’t you like: 27, coke, t-shirt, or Split Enz?"
"Mostly Split Enz, but I thought you would’ve had enough coke last night."
"What would be a more appropriate soundtrack to this scene?"
Daniel paused, a clever answer would be hours away. He made his way toward the kitchen as the phone rang. "Yep."
Gary Runnells, known as Mr. Erection in the four weeks since the Cubs clinched the division and subsequently advanced to the World Series, was on the other end of the call. Eight hours from the first pitch of Game 1 and Mr. Erection was up and ready.
"Yes, Gary, eight hours away. I can’t wait," Daniel answered in an even tone.
"Yes, it is unfuckingbelievable. ...
"I know. Game 2. Tomorrow night. You’ll be there. I’ve seen your tickets. ...
"I love Mark Fucking Kotsay, too. Why wouldn’t I? ...
"Yes, that was the greatest fucking trade the Cubs ever made. ... Kotsay for Matt Stairs. ... Right after Patterson went down. ... I know, where were you going to play Stairs anyway? ... Never shoulda got Stairs in the first place. ... I know that, too. ... He hit .357 since the trade, plus the two homers in the playoffs. ...
"Yes, I remember the 16-inning game he saved against San Diego in late August. ... Yes, he jogged in from center field and struck out Ryan Klesko ’cause the Cubs had nobody left in the ’pen. ... Yes, I know he did the same thing to save the championship game in the 1995 College World Series. ... I know, he pitched in college, too. ... I know Gary, I know. I know ’cause you told me. You’ve told me everything I know about the Cubs."
"Is that Mr. Erection?" Gyp screamed from the living room. "Tell him the Cubs are going to fucking lose." She laughed and then put her face back down in the coke.
"Gary, I gotta run. Really. ... Yeah, I’ll see you tonight."
Hanging up the phone and shaking his head, Daniel found relief in a half-gallon of orange juice in the refrigerator. "Jesus, that kid is going to up and die. Either way, he’s dead. If the fuckers win, he’s gonna go crazy and run in front of a truck. If they lose, he’s going to put a bullet in his head. He’s dead by Halloween, no question.
"I swear, I could ask that guy how many pubic hairs Sammy Fucking Sosa has and he could give me an answer."
"Hey, you gotta split soon," Gyp said quickly, again lifting her head from her blow. "Tsang’s coming over." Tsang was the local coke dealer. Wiry and greasy and as white as can be, he looked more Southern United States than North Side Chicago. Gyp was the one who gave him his nickname. He kept track of his inventory in a laminated booklet that looked, according to Gyp, just like a Chinese menu. Today was payday.
"I still don’t understand why you fuck that guy."
"Quid pro blow, my friend."
"And I have to leave. That’s the part I really don’t get. You suck that guy’s dick for coke, but you’re too much of a prude to have anyone else around. Do you see the irony there?"
"Fuck you."
"Not even if you were the Queen Mum."