It was dark. The bar had just announced last call. Most people had gone home, but Johnny and Anthony were among the few still at the counter.
The surface was sticky, covered in salt, water rings, and peanut shells. The music had long gone stale among the woozy men and women that still remained, including the two friends.
"Can you drive?" Johnny asked.
"You were supposed to be DD," Anthony replied.
"Every time we go out drinking, I'm DD. Fuck yourself."
"We could just split a ride?"
Johnny looked down at his watch. It read 1:40 a.m.
"Damn, I don't wanna go to work tomorrow, man," Johnny sighed.
"At least you don't go in till 4. I got work at 2, and I'll probably still be in that bitch till 11 at night," Anthony said, sipping from his ever-depleting glass of IPA.
"Yeah, but I'll be at work for a full twelve hours. I'm gonna need some hangover cure in the morning."
They sat in silence for a moment, the bartenders eyeing them as they wiped counters and sent glasses to the back for cleaning.
"Let's get out of here, man," Johnny said, pulling out his faded anime wallet. The bifold was loose and falling apart.
"You need a new wallet," Anthony said, raising an eyebrow.
"She's been faithful to me man. Had it since high school. Other wallets don't have the same feel as Ol' Reliable."
It was a warm summer night as they stumbled into the parking lot. The area was silent compared to earlier in the day when horns blared and people bustled about.
"Did you ever think we'd be here, man—still living with our parents at 22?" Anthony asked.
"You're 22, I'm 24, fucker. And yeah, I kinda figured I'd be a failure. Shit's hard, man. I'm thinking about getting another tattoo to cope."
"At least you got a girlfriend. I ain't had one in a while," Anthony said, leaning against Johnny's car.
"Best thing in my life right now—except I get paid jack shit to fight crackheads and I've got a nicotine addiction."
Johnny pulled out a vape and inhaled, the light from it briefly illuminating his face.
"I can't afford a house, can't afford a family—hell, I can barely afford myself. I wanna move in with my girlfriend, but I can't find a place in an area I'd be comfortable leaving her alone at night while I'm working. Shit's fucked, man."
As he spoke, a puff of vapor escaped with every word.
"I mean… remember when we house-sat for my uncle a couple years ago? We made damn good roommates. I know I can trust you not to bring bullshit home. Maybe we could room with your girl—then you wouldn't have to break into my house to tell me to get on the game."
Johnny laughed.
"First of all, your parents already gave me permission to go in as long as the door's unlocked. Second, your dog Blue? Shitty guard dog—he just looks at me when I walk in."
"Hey, don't talk shit about Blue. He barks—just not at you. He's got some weird vendetta against Natives."
"Your dog's the only one who doesn't think I'm Native, man. Everyone else assumes I'm from some tribe."
"That's 'cause you're an alcoholic fatass, Johnny."
"I'm not an alcoholic—I can stop whenever I want. I just don't want to, 'cause I don't have a problem!" Johnny said with a wry tone.
They both laughed as Johnny pulled out his phone.
"I'll get us a ride. I'll pick up my car before work tomorrow."
They sat in silence while Johnny scrolled.
"They're pretty busy tonight—we'll be here a while. Wanna chill in the car?"
"Yeah, man. I hate being out here like this—it feels like I'm gonna get run up on."
"You got your gun, right?" Johnny asked.
"I don't come to Central without it. You got yours?" Anthony replied.
"Of course I do—look who you're talking to."
They sat in the car, keeping an eye on their surroundings.
"I aspire to have as many guns as you one day, Johnny."
"I aspire to have more guns. Who needs a 401(k) when you've got the 100% off coupon?"
They laughed again.
"You make me proud, you bastard," Anthony grinned.
"Maybe we should room up. I know my girlfriend wants her own space, but I just want a place to call my own."
"It would be sick. Only thing is—you need to cook, man. You make struggle food like a damn five-star chef."
"I like cooking. Comes with the ADHD. I should hit up a psychiatrist and get diagnosed—it's annoying trying to do everything at once and getting distracted. Maybe I'd get some good drugs out of it."
"My therapist had me on Ritalin. I lost my appetite and got cottonmouth like a motherfucker."
"You sure the cottonmouth wasn't from the copious amounts of weed?"
"That too—but Ritalin does it."
"Maybe I should stay away from psychiatrists. I don't need them telling me I've got more issues than I already know about. I'm scared they'll diagnose me with autism—it'd explain way too much," Johnny said sarcastically.
Johnny and Anthony had been friends for years, since high school. An elective put them in the same class despite being in different grades. They never took the class seriously, and when they realized they lived close, the friendship bloomed.
They hung out often—skipping class, grabbing lunch, trading offensive jokes about each other's ethnicity. They bonded over parties, video games, and dumb memes. They picked each other up when the other was down, fought together, ran from the cops together.
They were more than friends—they were brothers. The family neither of them actually had.
"Remember when Violet was talking to both of us, trying to get us to fight?" Johnny asked.
"I do. She texted me saying she was talking to you too and that you'd found out, and that you were on your way to my house."
"I remember—it was around midnight. When I got there, you were already outside. We just talked."
"I honestly thought you were gonna punch me. You've got sixty pounds on me, man. I knew I wasn't gonna win."
"Lying ass—you can throw down. Only reason you wouldn't stand a chance is 'cause you wouldn't fight me back," Johnny said.
"The way she acted when she found out we were still friends was crazy. We should've known she was a red flag from day one."
"Eh, fuck that bitch. She dragged us both along expecting us to fight over her? Hell no—I'd rather cut my losses."
"You really are my best n****, you know that?"
"I feel like there are better examples of love I've shown you. Like when your ex dumped you from college, blaming you for everything, and every night after work I came over at 1 a.m. to talk and cheer you up." Johnny said.
"I know your ass was tired too. You were a real one for that."
Johnny's phone dinged. He checked it, squinting at the bright light.
"Our ride's around the corner," he said, peeking out the window. "Let's meet him across the street."
They got out of the car and crossed the street into the dark.
Several hours later, the area was alive with flashing lights. Police tape blocked off the street near the bar. A man spoke with an officer while a truck driver sat on the curb, pale and sweating, talking to another.
First responders kept the few lingering onlookers back as an ambulance crew loaded two body bags into the vehicle.
CSI personnel took photos of tire streaks on the black pavement, the marks breaking in two spots, and the dark crimson pooling nearby.
It was a dark night—darker than anyone should drive in. The trucker didn't like driving at night, but circumstances forced him onto the road this late. He was close to the truck stop where he could rest, but he wouldn't be sleeping for a while. He wouldn't eat for a while. He wouldn't close his eyes without seeing their faces for a long, long time.