Read Online Fingerless Gloves by Nick Orsini - Free Book Online

she thought would happen to her if she smoked. Some people fear this epic freakout, like if they smoke weed, they’ll end up eating one of those two pound bags of salt and vinegar chips and then slip into a coma. Beth watched me get high dozens of times when we were together. She never really said anything when I played Starfox on Nintendo 64 for hours on end, or when she had to finish baking “our” Toll House cookies after I got too fucked up to remember to preheat the oven. If anything, she was a total sport about the whole thing. As she stood out there and watched me, seemingly in slow motion, light the one-hitter again, I couldn’t help thinking that as far as girlfriends go, Beth Fallow was pretty much tops, boss, and as good as I could have gotten. My high snapped back into my neck and I felt the cold in my chest, like that moment when a professional wrestling match changes hands from heel to hero. It took six hits off the tiny piece, but I was regaining clarity. I was seeing vividly again.
    “Can you call James’ parents or something, Anton?” I reasoned with myself that I was in absolutely no state to talk to Mr. And Mrs. Squire. My “phone call” would turn into a ramble, that would turn into an upset whine, and my condition would be on display like some B-rate theater actor trying to muscle through The Merchant of Venice . The urgency in Beth’s voice, while it was difficult to ignore, had to be treated properly in order to salvage whatever bits of good vibes were still left in this night.
    I sneezed and stated plainly, “Are you kidding me? Of course I can’t call his parents. I can’t even wipe the crust out from the corners of my mouth. Why are we still at Vin’s house? Can we go?” My cell phone read 11:00pm.
    Back inside, we said our goodbyes. I should say, Beth made rounds and gave hugs goodbye while I stood by the door. The whole lot of people sitting in front of the television all looked somewhat ill after viewing Salo . Some looked stranger than others, but all had been through an experience. You could plainly tell who had seen the film before because they were snickering and trying to play off their disgust. The few who had just been devirginized to the depravity, filth, and hard-fought insistence on artistry wore an almost-green tint over their faces. I’m sure all the beer that had once been contained within the fortress of empty cans spread across the table and floor didn’t help the scenario one bit.
    Vin showed us the door, hugged Beth and gave me a fist bump. “Be good kids” is the bit of wisdom he left us with. I’ve never understood the fist bump, the same way I don’t understand why, at house parties, guys introduce themselves to other guys at least twice, sometimes three times.
    This is the bro intro: You walk into a party, filled with people you don’t know, with the one person you do know. Inevitably, that person leaves you on your own to go talk to everyone else. Immediately you panic. You don’t want to barge in on a conversation already happening, and starting one on your own is a daunting project to undertake. Unless you’re some type of social genius or just a nonstop talker, you end up awkwardly standing by the keg, trying to read the magnets on the refrigerator, until some guy comes up to you and gives you a super-complex hand slap and asks what your name is. When you tell him, he introduces himself then says something like, “What did you say your name was again, bro? I didn’t quite catch it.” Then you go through the introduction again, where you tell him your name and he tells you his. In especially loud parties or when dealing with especially vacant bros, this can even happen a third time. So there you are, fist pounding awkwardly and doing Carlton Banks handshakes with some weird guy, in pre-ripped jeans, who just asked for your name multiple times. To be honest, I think about this more when I’m stoned. I could never talk about it with Beth, hell… I