Forty ounces to freedom
Nate had a date. First one in a while. He was a handsome enough guy. Witty, too. But like I said, it had been a while. He was so out of practice that even as he stood at Brianne’s door it took him a good 5-6 minutes to figure out how to knock in some way that seemed “cool.” Then he accidentally touched the doorbell and just had to roll with it. She answered and wow. “Oh, man — she is so out of my league,” he kept thinking as she invited him in. “I’ll just be another minute,” she said, “Grab a beer from the fridge and relax for a few.” He watched her walk down the hall with his jaw on the floor. Wow. Then he did as he was told. In the fridge was a six pack of some micro-brew he’d never heard of, and behind that was a 40 ounce bottle of Olde English 800. This made him immediately think of his very British roommate, Edward, whose sole advice for Nate’s first night back in the game was, “Get pumped before heading out. Do some push ups or curls or something. Girls loves that shit.” Curls.
Nate grabs the bottle of Olde English and starts doing bicep curls. One arm, then the other, quick and vigorous. He gets so caught up in the moment that Brianne gives him a start as she steps into the kitchen. She glances at the bottle, held awkwardly like it were corn on the cob that Nate was midway through eating. “Oh, you don’t have to drink that. A friend left it here. You can drink some of the good beer.” Desperate for an explanation behind his apparently intense focus on the bottle, Nate says, “No worries — I love this stuff.” False, but better than the truth.
Nate gives her what he thinks is a cool smile, twists the cap, and feels any hope of ever being cool again wash away from him along with the thick, sudsy malt liquor as it erupts all over his face.