Halle Butler: Jillian

MEGAN EMPTIED the rest of the beer into her purse and they walked over to Will’s. “I feel like I’ve been waiting to get wasted all week,” she announced.

“Hmm. The weather is nice,” said Randy.

“Um, is it usually nice this time of year? I can’t remember.”

“Well, I think it’s usually nice like this some days, and then not so nice other days,” said Randy.

“Yeah, right.”

Mercifully, there were people at Will’s when they got there. Megan felt a little anxious, but she had a plan. She sat on the couch next to an ashtray and got a beer and a cigarette out of her bag. The beer distracted her from the inevitable Friday question, which was, “Hmm, what am I going to do for the next 62 hours now that it’s the weekend?” Four beers calmed that pretty quickly, and the cigarettes helped her drink faster and more. If she started to get the spins, she could switch to cigarettes exclusively.

She knew all of her habits were painfully interesting.

It would be difficult to talk to anyone but Randy until the fourth beer, but if it had to happen, she could always smoke a cigarette and drink a leetle bit faster.

“I don’t give a fuck, I don’t give a fuck,” was one of Megan’s mantras. She finished her first party beer and started the second. She looked around at all the people in the living room. She didn’t see Will. She kind of liked Will. She thought, “I don’t give a fuck,” while moving her head and shoulders back and forth a little.

She hadn’t meant to move, but quickly reminded herself that she didn’t give a fuck, either way.

“What are you laughing at?” asked a guy who hit on her sometimes, for some reason.

“Myself, because I am an idiot.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, can I have a cigarette?” he asked.

“Of course, why not, right?” she said.

“So, what’s up?”

“Uh, nothing really at all.”

“Oh yeah? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, I work at a gastroenterologist’s office as a Medical Records Technician, which means I look at saltine-sized photos of diseased anuses and colons all day. And I don’t really have that much free time, but the free time I do have I spend trying to get drunk enough to forget my miseries,” said Megan, holding her beer can up to the guy for a cheers.

He looked at her sideways, then gave her the cheers.

“Well, at least it’s a funny job. Is it interesting? Are you into computers?” He was a smooth young man.

“No, I’m not really that into computers. And, also, our computers are always broken, so if I were into them, this job would be even more frustrating.”

“Oh. Ok. Well, how did you get the job? Are you interested in medicine?”

“Oh, god no, not at all. I’m kind of a hypochondriac. If I see a malady, I absorb it. So, I don’t think I’d ever want to,” she searched for the word, “advance in this field.”

“Oh, ok.”

Megan shifted. “I got this job through my primary doctor. I came in to see him about migraines and minor panic attacks, and he told me that occupation was good medicine and that the doctor down the hall was hiring. I hadn’t had a job in ten months and I was living off my parents. It was making me cry every day.”

“Oh.”

Megan opened her third beer and flipped open the top of her box of cigarettes. She rolled the cigarette around between her fingers before lighting it. She thought it might be soothing. A girl walked up to them and punched Megan’s new boyfriend in the arm.

“Hey, James, what’s up, man?” said the girl.

She seemed like a happy young person. They ought to just, you know, go to the other side of the living room together, this girl and James.

“Oh, I got you one of those road kill pelts I was telling you about,” said the new girl. “They’re actually a lot more beautiful and a lot less gross than I thought they’d be.”

Oh my god, everyone in this world is just way too interested in things, thought Megan.

“Hey, do you want to sit here?” Megan asked.

“You don’t mind?”

The girl asked this as if Megan had just done her a great kindness.

“Oh, um, no. Not at all. Just let me get my bag,” said Megan.

“Hey, Megan, do you know Sarah?” asked James.

“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Megan, holding out her hand.

Sarah shook it.

“I’ve seen you a lot though,” said Sarah.

“Yeah, well, that’s natural,” said Megan. “Bye, guys.”

A tiny-feeling hand pinched Megan’s elbow.

It was Amanda!

“Hey, Megan,” said Amanda.

“Hey, you want to go outside with me?” Megan asked. “I was just going to smoke.”

“Oh, I think you can smoke inside,” said Amanda.

“Yeah,” said Megan. “I know. But I want to go outside.”

“Oh, um,” said Amanda. She looked around and then said, “Ok, sure.”

“Ppphhhbbbffff,” said Megan, leaning against the back porch railing. “What the fuck.”

“What?” said Amanda.

“Eh, nothing. I feel weird today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” asked Megan.

“Oh, I mean, it’s sympathy, not an apology.”

“I know,” said Megan, lighting a cigarette.

She offered one to Amanda, who waved her hand “No” at it.

“If I don’t quit smoking, I’m going to kill myself,” said Megan.

“Are they starting to take their toll?”

“No, I mean I’m going to deliberately commit suicide if I can’t do something as simple as not slowly poisoning myself.”

“Eh, you’re young. The right time to quit will present itself,” said Amanda.

“Do you really believe that? Do you really think there’ll be some day when I feel capable enough to resist the nicotine addiction? And be able to unburden myself of the glamorous and romantic associations I have with smoking? You really think that’s going to happen?”

“Well, yeah. All things we do but don’t completely like are phases. Sometimes they’re long-standing phases, but, I mean, they’re phases. I remember wetting the bed until first grade and just really wondering when it would stop, and feeling the same way you do when my parents told me I’d grow out of it. I really thought it would never stop.”

“What, are you a serial killer or something?”

“No. What kind of a thing is that to say?”

“Serial killers wet the bed, that’s all.”

“Lots of people wet the bed until they’re seven. Six and seven, that’s still a baby, I think. I’m just trying to relate our experiences.”

“Yeah, ok.”

They listened to the sound of other people’s chatter. The porch was half full with people.

“I wet the bed, too,” said Megan. “Until first grade. It’s no big deal.”

“I know it’s no big deal, that’s why I used it as an example.”

“But it’s different, because it’s not like I learned how to wet the bed and then got addicted to it even though it was starting to kill me. It’s not like bed wetting was all the rage but the pee was, like, transdermally poisoning me.”

“I guess that’s one difference. Still, you should give it a few more years before committing suicide. Things might change.”

“Yeah, I guess I was just being kind of dramatic,” said Megan.

“Oh really?” said Amanda.

Megan sighed and opened another beer.

They hung out and drank, and at some point someone started smoking weed out there on the porch. Megan was drunk enough to think she wanted some. She eyed the people who were smoking. They all looked like they were pretty close friends and like they were having a real conversation. They were laughing and saying “Nuh-uh” and stuff like that.

“I want to smoke some of that weed,” said Megan.