Dale Thayer had a pretty bitchin’ Wednesday.
Woke up about nooner, pulled an Icer — that’s what he calls Icehouse — from the mini-fridge next to his bed, slid his fungal toes into his flip-flops. By the time he made it to the full-sized fridge in the kitchen, it was time for another Icer. Cold as ever. Free shivers, you know what I’m sayin’? Poured a bit on his toes — alcohol kills off the fungus.
About 12:15 and he’s down at the outdoor pool, pulling a third Icer from another mini-fridge he keeps poolside. He notices someone has been helping themselves to his stash of Icers again, but he’s feelin’ pretty ok now so he’ll let it slide this time. He wades into the pool. Did Dale Thayer just pee? Shit, hahaha, he did. Turned the pool green! Warmed it up!
He grabs an Icer to go, heads out to his car — he got a VIP street parking spot last night, right out front — but his car’s not there. Stolen, towed, something, hell. But it’s 12:45pm and Dale is now four Icers deep. Fuck it: he’ll take the goddamn bus. Dale’s not too good for it.
On the bus a dude talks to Dale; Dale doesn’t know this dude but he seems nice — this better not be the dude who’s been dippin’ into Dale’s Icer stash or else Dale’s going tear him a new one. Dude asks if Dale is Dale Thayer. He is but it depends who’s asking, haha. Dude asks if Dale is drunk. Yeah right, Dale wishes. Dude asks if Dale likes to get high. Dale cocks an eyebrow, starts to laugh. Did I mention Dale is shirtless? How the hell did he get on the bus?
Dale and dude get off the bus a few stops from Petco, head to a playground, watch the dudes there hoopin’. Dude hands Dale a spliff that seemed to come outta nowhere — hella thick, too. Shit’ll make you slow as a dinosaur, man, dude says. Dale puffs, puffs, passes. Dude lives a few blocks from the playground: does Dale have time for a bong rip? Dale might be able to squeeze it in.
The “bong rip” was actually from a crack pipe, so Dale’s a little sweaty now as he rolls into Petco — would be worse if he hadn’t freaked out from the crack and stolen a sixer of Buds from dude’s fridge and drank them on the way to the park. Gotta calm the nerves, right? Settle in for pre-games. Hell, Dale just might blow off pre-games: he’s been pre-gamin’ since nooner, haha.
Dale has forgotten all about his Nalgene bottle of tequila he keeps in his locker; he is glad to see it now. What a day! Let’s soak in the whirlpool, get loose, take a few wormless pulls. That’s nice. That’s real nice . . .
Next thing Dale knows, he high-fiving ol’ Hundy. Did he just finish a ballgame, notch an old Save-a-roo-skie? It appears so. Whoa. Almost just fell over, too.
Time to celebrate, walk home, take a dip, have an Icer or two, watch the San Diego sunset. No reason to change out of his uniform: he’s proud to be a Padre. That means “father” in Español, Dale knows, but Dale has no kids. Will he ever have kids? Meet “the one”? This tequila is nice, how’d it get into this bottle? How’d the bottle get into his hand? What street is this? Oh shit, Dale’s gotta pee. He thinks he recognizes that house; they’ll let him pee. He’s Dale Fucking Thayer, he’ll pee where he pleases.
Where is his car again? Where is the doorbell? Does he feel addicted to crack now? That would be bad. Tequila is good, even from a Nalgene bottle. Whoa. Here’ it comes: Dale Thayer is probably gonna puke now. Dale Thayer hasn’t puked since high school prom, which he didn’t actually go to, per se, just mostly watched from his Buick, which he had worked all of the previous summer to buy. He drank a fifth of McGillicuddy’s in that car in the parking lot, then burst in and puked on the dance floor. So he did sorta go to the dance. It felt ok to puke then. His temples were nice and sweaty, like they are now.
Dale can feel everything inside of him rumble and settle, rumble, settle as he stands on a porch, lightly knocking at a door, slowly starting to heave, gently weeping. Life is beautiful, Dale thinks. This is ok. This is good. Bad stuff out. Bad stuff out . . .
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