I have left the apartment of my Neo-Nazi Girlfriend who Is Not My Girlfriend and have had a beer with F-Ready when he approaches the car, taps on the passenger window.
"Bro, my crew's coming over in an hour: can you ride me to Seven-Eleven so I can get some Twizzlers and Steel Reserves?"
"Sure," I say, wishing I didn't.
"Nice car," he nods as he climbs inside. "For a Jap car."
"Actually, I think Hyundai is Korean," I say, starting the engine.
"Japs is Japs," F-Ready says, lighting a cigarette.
We approach the turn for the Seven-Eleven when F-Ready asks me to make a Left instead of the necessary Right. A few more directions from him and we pull in front of a small duplex, weedy growth around cinderblock.
"I'll be just a moment," he says, and then he goes across the street, heads upstairs, knocks on a door and then bum-rushes in: I hear things fall and break, and toy with the idea of just leaving, then realize: it probably is not best to strand F-Ready.
F-Ready returns after a few minutes and explains:
"Dude bad-mouthed Lawn-chair's sister. Can't do that."
""Lawn-chair?" I ask.
"Lawn-chair. He wants everyone to call him Sunny-D but in his crib there is only a mattress and a bunch of lawn-chairs, so Lawn-chair it is."
As we drive to Seven-Eleven I wonder what it would be like to be part of F-Ready's crew: to have people cross the street to avoid you, to have people avert their eyes, to just ROLL.
"They better not be short on Twizzlers," F-Ready says as we pull into the Seven-Eleven parking lot: "Red Vines are for pussies."
I am Laslo.
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