whole
lot
of
puke
in
my
life.
This
guy
told
me
to
shove
sobriety
up
my
ass.
What
the
fuck?”
I
explained.
My
breathing
was
heavy
and
I
realized
my
voice
sounded
desperate.
I
felt
like
a
toddler
complaining
about
a
stolen
choo-‐choo.
“Huh,”
George
groaned.
Silence.
“Well?”
I
said
at
last.
“Well
what?”
I
could
hear
the
munching
of
potato
chips
and
the
clamor
of
a
football
crowd
on
George’s
end
of
the
line.
“Well,
what
the
fuck?
What’s
the
point?”
I
yelled.
A
mother
covered
her
son’s
ears
and
sped
by
the
phone
booth.
“Huh,”
George
moaned,
“So,
this
guy
didn’t
want
to
join
up,
huh?”
Someone
had
scored
a
touchdown
on
George’s
end
of
the
line.
“That
is
correct,”
I
said
sarcastically.
“Do
you
want
to
join
up
with
him?”
“What?”
“Do
you
want
to
join
up
with
him?”
I
thought
about
it
for
a
second.
Then
I
thought
about
the
fact
that
only
a
crazy
person
would
even
consider
the
question.
“No.”
I
said,
sounding
extra
exasperated.
“And
you
don’t
see
the
point
of
what
you
were
trying
to
do
with
the
drunk?”
George
asked.
“Correct.”
I
fumed.
42