Part 3B

“I don’t see why you stick with that shit job,” Randy’s speeding down the freeway. “If it were me, I would’ve told those bastards to go fuck themselves months ago.”

“Gotta pay rent somehow.” I’ve heard Randy’s sermon every Saturday for the past two years.
“I’m just saying, it’s not like they’re paying for your retirement, you don’t owe them a damn thing.”

He’s right, but we both know I’m too much of a bitch to actually quit. Sure, I could find something else, but at least this job lets me wear a mask to hide my shame.

After fifteen minutes of listening to the wind slap against the Jeep’s plastic exterior we roll into our favorite diner, one of those high-class joints with red leather booths and a real smoking section. The whole place smells like cigarettes and stale coffee.

Randy orders the chicken fried steak and I ask for a slice of apple pie.

“You know that stuff’s like eating cancer.” I say when the food arrives. The steak looks like tire rubber smothered in bull semen.

“Fuck you Martha Stewart,” he stabs. “I’ve got a solid four years left before my metabolism goes to the shitter, and until then I’ll eat what ever the hell I damn well please.”
“Have it your way, just don’t expect me to cry at your funeral.”
“Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m to Much of a Pussy to Quit My Shitty Job and Actually Do Something with My Life. I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself.”
“You’re right, why don’t you pass that heart attack over here and I’ll get started.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and eat your Goddamned pie?”

We banter on while sucking down gallons of unleaded coffee, I’m a self-righteous, self-loathing prick, and he’s a scumbag, no talent, ass clown. It’s a beautiful thing.