Noah Cicero - Best Behavior

We stared at him and said nothing.

Then we looked and Monica was crying. She was text messaging her boyfriend in Columbus and tears were going down her cheeks. Tears tumbled over her freckles down into her mouth. She grabbed one of those small napkins off the bar and blew her nose. We knew why she was crying and didn't ask, but she supplied the information anyway, “I'm so sad. I miss Brandon so much. He's down there all alone sitting in his parent’s house. I want to be with him. I would really feel good if I was with him.”

We didn't say anything.

Everyone was crying.

Several people were helping Sarah get to the door. She was so drunk she couldn't even walk. It looked like she was crying too. Hopefully she wasn't planning on driving. Maybe she would drive. People do that. They get in their cars drunk to the point of having the mental state of a tree and drive their cars into telephone poles. The pole gets bent a little, their car is destroyed and they get a DUI and have to pay 2,000 in legal fees. And then the state sends them a letter stating they have to pay for the telephone pole which is another 1,000. Then they have to go to DUI camp in Austintown for the weekend where they talk about their feelings. Then they don't drink for a week telling everyone they are “turning over a new leaf.” Everyone tells them that's great. Then a week later you see them in a bar drunk, but they have no license for a year so they have to walk home. Then you see them walking down the street drunk at night and instead of offering them a ride you just laugh and beep. And that is what is called life. What separates man from the animals? Animals cannot get DUIs.

I ended up in a car.

In the backseat with Monica.

I was drunk.

Monica looked beautiful.

She had stopped crying.

Her make-up ran a little down her cheeks.

I love when black make-up runs down a woman's cheeks.

When she looks all torn and true.

She put her hand on my leg.

Joseph was up front driving.

Amanda was beside him touching his cock.

Monica was jealous and moved closer to me.

I moved closer to Monica.

I said, “I don't know if I can fuck tonight. I'm so drunk. It might not work.”

Monica laughed.

Then Joseph hit a curb.

The car shook violently.

“HOLY SHIT,” Amanda yelled.

Monica was laughing hysterically.

I yelled, “I can't die tonight. I'm supposed to get on a bus in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” Monica said in a sluggish voice.

“I'm going to NYC, bitches. I'm getting interviewed.”

“What magazine?”

“Fuck, if I know. They want to talk to me and other writers about shit. What shit, who knows.”

It was dark in the backseat. It always weirded me out how we rode in darkness in cars. Especially when I was drunk. Riding along the street in public engulfed in darkness like we were in the jungle, going to sleep, or fucking.

Joseph yelled back, “I'm sorry guys. I won't hit anymore curbs.”

“Please don't. I must get on a bus.”

Amanda yelled at me, “Calm down, we'll get you on that fucking bus.”

“I don't believe you. You're never on time for anything.”

“Don't judge me when I'm drunk.”

“I'm not judging you, I'm stating facts. Judging is like saying you're a bad person.”

“No, you're judging. I feel judged.”

Joseph yelled, “Judge not, lest he be judged.”

Amanda said, “Did you hear that, don't judge.”

“I'm not judging; I'm stating empirical evidence on why I'm worried that I won't be there. I'm so drunk.”

Monica rubbed my hair with her little half-Italian hand and said, “Don't worry. They'll get you there. Calm down.”

“I believe you, whatever. Have we started playing Monopoly yet?”

We pulled into Monica's driveway. She lived in a house that was divided up into three apartments. When the steel mills closed, there were 500 thousand people living in the area. 300 thousand left. It left a lot of big nice houses. Slum lords bought them in the 80s and converted them into apartments. Monica lived in one.

We went into the apartment. It was a sad little place. It had white walls painted with the cheapest paint possible. A couple of couches she got from relatives for free or maybe from a thrift store; a small television; a kitchen that hadn't been remodeled since the 80s, and a bedroom with a nice double bed. I walked around the apartment imagining her sleeping alone at night. Nobody around to hold her. Monica would wake up and go piss alone. She would sing country music to herself when she was pissing in the early morning. Then she would go to the kitchen and cry singing country music making herself scrambled eggs with bacon. She didn't drink coffee. She would drink orange juice bought from the dollar store. She would sit at her kitchen table text messaging her love in Columbus and eating scrambled eggs. Her mother would call. She hated answering her mother's number but she would anyway because she would feel guilty if she didn't. Her mother would bitch at her about things that didn't matter and had no relevance to anyone's life. Monica would listen and bitch back. She would tell her mother she was going to take a shower and hang up. She wouldn't take a shower. She went to the living room. Laid down on one of the used couches and watched television.

I laid on Monica's bed and Monica laid next to me. Amanda was sitting on the edge of the bed. Monica got on top of me. I put my hands on her thighs. She giggled and laughed, then kissed Amanda. They made out. Their tongues in each other's mouths. They always kissed when they were drunk. I knew very few women that did not show bisexual behavior. Pretty much every woman I knew would make out with a girl when she was drunk. No one considered that homosexuality. No one mentioned it as anything sociological. It was just what women were like now. They were bisexual. Of course a lot of men would give each other blow jobs in porn stores and truck stops. The mainstream media never mentioned all the homosexuality taking place. It was obvious to everyone that America had become a bisexual nation. But America still wanted to pretend that everyone was living in beautiful houses having nice straight sex getting married and having children that would one day grow up to use crystal meth or go to Harvard.

I looked up at Monica and said, “I like you on top of me.”

Monica giggled.

Marissa arrived and so did the bartender Tom.

Monica jumped off me. I watched her walk away from me. She didn't want anyone thinking she was cheating on her boyfriend. She knew that everyone loved drama and somebody would email her boyfriend down in Columbus. She had already got in trouble for cheating on her boyfriend with a guy named Buddy. Buddy was a small man. He was five foot five inches tall. He weighed 130 pounds and was covered in really dumb tattoos. Things like dragons, snakes, and skulls spitting fire. Brandon found out of course and punched a hole in the wall. The hole was still there. I looked at it and giggled to my drunken self. Her boyfriend of course broke up with her. They weren't swingers. They were people that liked to play ownership games. Having a relationship creates a game. A court with rules, regulations, and privileges. And one of those regulations is no cheating. But she got drunk and cheated. She knew better. But she wanted drama. Her parents were divorced and she was afraid of commitment. Her boyfriend left and went back to Columbus. Monica was left to eat scrambled eggs alone. She called him when he was down in Columbus and fell in love again. Why he would expect her to stay faithful I didn't know.

Tom had stopped crying. But he did seem emotionally disenfranchised. Tom was a sad person. Sarah said he was bipolar. I personally had never seen him walking around happy and perky. If he was ever manic it never happened around me.