in the making

It was Friday night, and he didn't have any real responsibilities, yet Steve found himself wishing Ben would stick to the schedule. It felt kind of unappreciative, somehow, to fuss over time that was free time; like winning a lifetime supply of cookies and demanding milk. This, of course, was silly: most of Steve's time was free and most of the time he drank beer.

Like Steve, Ben didn't have a job. Unlike Steve, Ben was the Gretzky of the bubble hockey world. After getting trounced in a best-of-eleven-dammit the week previous, Steve had demanded a rematch. Ben had graciously accepted.

"Eight o'clock next Friday, you silly little bitch!"

While there were no clocks at The Cherry Bar, it was surely later than eight o'clock. Steve had already commiserated with two cans of PBR: Ben was at least twenty six minutes late.

Steve felt guilty for caring what time it was, given his copious amounts of it. During the day, he suffocated under the weight of time. He found himself engaging in whatever mindless activity ushered time to pass most quickly, racing toward whichever non-event would next distract him. He relaced his Addidas. He reorganized his CDs. He felt disturbed by the march of minutes and seconds, which blasted him with constant and punctuated recurrence. He promised to himself to not think of units of time for at least the next six hours.

By now the band was setting up, and the guy in the ponytail made that a real and present threat. He wore a leather vest almost indistinguishable from the tan, shaved chest he borrowed from that overcompensating guy in the Bowflex commercial. He professionally ignored the two established women idolizing him from the foot of the stage. They loved it. He nearly cudgeled the skankier one with a monitor. She conceivably orgasmed. But for as much as this mating ritual amused any onlookers, one figured at this pace they'd be two verses into "Gimme Three Steps" by the end of beer four. Steve started taking smaller sips.

The bartender (and single T-shirt owner) offered one of those "need anything?" glances. It came off cold but well practiced. Steve made a gesture he'd seen on a celebrity blackjack show that he thought meant "no thanks" but, thirty seconds later, discovered meant "hit me". This did not have the time-accelerating effect that he for a moment anticipated.

Steve wondered if bubble hockey could be considered a hobby. Two pretty girls twirled away at the machine now. They had managed to seduce a third out of her quarters. They giggled a lot and spun their wingers into diminutive nausea. The trio had already been noisy and lovely when Steve arrived, probably driven to false haste by the feeling of freedom that comes at that Friday happy hour. Steve promised to himself to start referring to it as a "happy event".

The redhead giggled the most. To her, every sloppy slapshot was amusing. She at one point accidentally scored on her own goal, an event which elicited such a cascade of laughter so as to distract a sour regular from his Pride fight. The burly partron threw his fifty pound beard over his shoulder (an effort which would account for his neck), and a dirty look followed. A flick of beer froth splorted onto the hockey bubble. Steve considered wiping it off with his shirt, but quickly remembered the situation of his laundry.

It was a chivalrous thought, at least.