The next day I decided to go to my friend Pat's house, I practically lived there and even had a bed in his room, why his family tolerated it I don't know. But I'd be there around five days out of the seven - it was my sanctuary.
"Yo Pat, I'm coming over"
"Ok, seeya in 15" and I'd be there in 15.
And he was also of legal age to buy alcohol which I still couldn't at that point; he always bought me all the Mickeys and Steel Reserves I wanted.
"yo Pat, can you get me some *** ****?"
"That **** again? Alright be right back"
And he'd go out and get it for me, why I don't know considering he rarely drank.
And he had a cool hookah set-up which I'd buy the flavors for so I think that was the trade-off. We smoked that **** for hours, and got horrible nicotine highs and were basically asthmatic after inhaling all of that vapor, but it was something to do, and we'd even invite our Turkish friend over, Babook.
Babook thought he was black and liked to argue hip-hop and would quickly wear out his welcome but he provided some amusement we thought.
"KANYE WEST IS THE GOAT OF RAP NO CAP FAM"
He would say all these phrases that in 2012 were very corny and try-hard but now are part of the youth-vernacular
"bro, Babook, what the **** does "GOAT" mean?" I'd say.
"The Greatest of all time fam. And he is, Kanye slayed with that Dark Twisted fantasy fam, and don't get me started on Graduation fam"
Fam, fam, fam, fam, fam, fam. I hated him.
And he would tug at the hookah and spill the coals on the deck like a ***** and Pat's dad would inevitably come out in his drunken slumber and yell at us.
"WHO DROPPED THE ******* COALS ON THE DECK? YOU PUNKS, CLEAN IT UP!" He would yell while wobbling around and then would stick his wineglass out.
"PAT, FILL HER UP. I'M HALF-EMPTY"
"Dad, you drank 3 bottles today"
"****** FILL IT UP *******!" He'd yell, with his big inflamed tomato nose, and greasy pores which oozed out all of the alcohol from his system.
Pat filled the glass to the brim and it started to overflow.
"AND DON'T HIDE IT FROM ME YA LITTLE PUNK OR I'LL KICK YOUR ***" he'd finally say while wobbling back to bed and sleeping like a corpse in 2 in the afternoon. I felt bad for him. He'd had a hard life. He lost his wife early, or Pat's mother, so I couldn't blame him. He was a very funny guy too for the most part, but his drinking was out of control.
Eventually Babook got bored and decided to leave after dropping some more coals, and Pat's dog George skittered out from the corner. He licked my toes. He was a pitbull but a big *****. He'd get taken by Ryder, the little rat-terrier chijauaja every night and it had changed him I think. But George loved scritches on his head, and he loved biscuits of which I gave him plently. I ****** on my berry hookah, and he chomped on his biscuits.