Monday, June 10, 2002
There was something disappointing about going home from New York Art College. A depression set in as soon as Smythe drove his middle-class luxury car across the borders of his old California hometown, Burnt Pines. He was here to spend a few weeks of his summer vacation before flying first class to Europe to live life as a starving artist, where he would make a killing.

Mom and dad couldn’t meet Smythe at the airport because he wanted it to be a surprise. Also, they were emotionally distant and mom was haunted by the sexual abuse of Smythe by an uncle that she couldn’t prevent; but mostly because it was supposed to be a surprise.

Only one person knew about Smythe coming in, his best friend Eddie “Big Fucking Junkie” Joneser. Eddie was supposed to meet Smythe at the airport, but once again, Eddie had let him down. Smythe was forced to fly back to New York City and drive all the way back in his car. You’d think after all this time he’d be used to Eddie letting him down. It was something he had never gotten used to.

Smythe went to Eddie’s parents’ house, where there was a huge hub-bub going on. Apparently, there was a party in full gear! Shit. Just like Eddie. Saturday afternoon and the party is still going on.

Parking his car, Smythe walked around back and found the yard full of fat degenerates. Ugly, down-trodden, just aching for a fix or to gamble or have sex with a dead person, no way of telling how far these people had slid from society’s ranks.

“Where’s Eddie?” demanded Smythe. People were confused and a little frightened, one was pregnant, and a guy eventually pointed toward the house.

Smythe stormed through the house, bumping into freak after weirdo, until he found the upstairs bathroom. Two guys were standing around doing God knew what, holding cocktails and waiting outside the bathroom. Smythe kicked it in, and inside, to his suspicions, he found Eddie sitting on the toilet.

“Jesus!” said Eddie, pulling up his pants. “You scared me, Smythe! I had to pinch one off!”

“Stop the act, Eddie,” Smythe commanded, looking in the toilet for drugs. “I know you flushed the drugs down the toilet. And then pooed in there so I wouldn’t search too good. Why, Eddie?”

“I—“

“Shut-up! I don’t want to hear your lies anymore.” And he didn’t. Smythe dragged Eddie out by the arm as Eddie continued trying to pull his pants up. Smythe tossed him to the floor, as one of the suited guys entered the bathroom.

“C’mon, man, be cool!” pleaded Eddie.

“Knock off the act, Eddie, you’re a junkie!” snapped Smythe. “I know you’re jealous of me. I went to Art College, Eddie, it doesn’t mean I don’t still love you like a brother. If you want to be jealous, that’s fine, but don’t lose yourself in these ridiculous drugs. You’re killing yourself.”

“I told you, I don’t take drugs!” said Eddie.

“Fuck you, Eddie,” said Smythe, in a language that would have disappointed his mother. “You not only take drugs, you make them! Everybody knows it, it’s no secret.”

“I told you this before, man, I make an acid-reflux inhibitor. And I don’t make it myself, I’m just CEO of the company that makes it. It’s over-the-counter—“

“Aaaah!” screamed Smythe, grabbing his head like James Dean. “Stop the lies, Eddie!”

“It’s the truth, you dick,” said Eddie, standing up again and straightening his tie. “And for the last time, I’m not jealous of you going to Art School. I told you, I graduated six years ago with a Masters in Business Management from Princeton. Now if you’re done interrupting the company picnic, I’ve got a three-legged race to win.”

It was too much for Smythe. He let Eddie exit in peace, talking to another guy in a suit about fourth quarter earnings and appeasing stockholders. He just wanted to walk away, but Smythe knew if he didn’t do something Eddie would be dead before he was 30. Next month.

For more of this great story, buy Southern Elvis Brandon’s novel
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