The Loser
A Short Story
2009 by J.L.
Bill, one of the last Bills of the most recent progeny of full adults quietly enjoyed a Bohemian Pilsener beer from Slovakia. It was Thursday night. He and Sam watched a baseball game and were half way through a variety six pack of Bohemian Pilsener, German lager, American lager, English ale, and an Irish stout. The season was slightly over a quarter old. Tomorrow would be easy. They had that tendency, especially as the spring rained its way into summer. The rain fell steadily. It was surprising that the game wasn't rained out, though it looked cloudy at the ballpark.
Sam was an obedient servant to his cell phone. It didn't ring with tremendous frequency, he maintained a fairly small circle of friends, but in that discreet ring, he was extremely attentive. Bill owned a piece of this technology but exploited it only out of utility. He often didn't carry it or when he did, seldom had it activated.
During the top of the second with one out, Sam's phone began to buzz. "Yeh, yeh, well, let me check. It's Chris, he wants to know if it is alright to come over, he'll bring another six pack." Bill thought about this, briefly he pretended he didn't hear Sam but he did, more so out of disbelief and disgust. He let out a slight huff. It was his house, but he considered Sam a true friend. "Yeh, yeh, whatever", he let out trying not sound too dismayed. "Yeh, come on over. What? No, there are no chicks over here. Yeh, okay, see ya." He replaced the phone in his pocket. "Chris is coming over with a six pack. Yeh, I heard you the first time. C'mon man, Chris isn't that bad of a guy." Bill took a deep slug from his beer and solidly pounded it on the coffee table. He reached for an ale. He popped the cap with a bottle opener and allowed the bent cap to bounce and clamor across the coffee table before landing silently on the carpet
near his feet. He tossed the metallic bottle opener haphazardly across the table. It bounced and clanged with tacit, yet definitive violence. "Jesus, man, would you just relax. Who says I'm not relaxed?" Sam didn't say anything. Silence persisted for another minute.
The home team allowed a run to score on a single through the shift with the man on third trotting to home easily. Bill shook his head and one side of his lip curled up. "The guy doesn't really have any friends", implored Sam. "Jeez, I wonder why? Sam futilely argued his case, “Look, I know he's had some problems, he had a rough life, you just need to give him a chance...” Bill abruptly cut him off, “Bro, that is no excuse, there are lots of dudes who've had rough lives, we ostensibly have rough lives because we have to work for a living at jobs we hate just to have shelter and food. I'm sick of that excuse, take some fucking responsibility! It's a simple matter of choice. There are many people who are the victims of child molestation who would never consider and would never harm a child and then there are scumbags who fuck them in the ass and come in their face for years on end. It's a choice, no one puts a gun to your head, I don't buy it. I'm not a cruel, unsympathetic person, but there is something called accountability and I don't like scumbags in my presence. I deal with enough of them outside the confines of my home! Alright, alright, I get the point, next time he calls and I'm here, I won't answer", Sam's voice took on a defensive, dejected tone. Bill responded, "Look man, you're a cool guy, I just don't understand why you associate yourself with such an unconscionable douchebag."
Bill pondered why decent people, not decent in the falsely respectable sense, but legitimately upstanding individuals cavorted with such septic characters. He presumed it was out of sense of compassion or that they were easily manipulated by nefarious charisma, which some people could detect and others could not. Nevertheless, even upon such reflection, he couldn't bridge the gap between these two extremes, it was a vexing paradox with no answer.
During one of the corporate sponsor trivia question segments there was a series of knocks on the door. Bill didn't flinch. He took another swig of his beer. Sam already anticipated that he would have to answer the door in another man's house. Chris walked in with a six-pack of shitty American beer and smarmy smile. "What's going on, man?, he said to Sam. "Just watching the game." Chris glanced in Bill's direction but purposefully avoided eye contact. "Hey bill, how are you doing?" Bill modestly raised his bottle without turning around. He thought about a home half rally, a beautiful naked woman who was in love with him and there love was unencumbered, deep and spontaneous. He thought of a good night's sleep, anything but dealing with the asshole who stumbled in with skunky bottled swill and a scummy swagger which robbed him of his Thursday evening.
Chris set down the beer on the coffee table. "Is it alright if I put it here?", he asked in vain politeness. "Sure", said bill without looking up again and taking another drain from the nearly empty green bottle.
Sam stoked up a conversation with Chris and they both spoke about nothing. A few hopeless interrogatories stuttering off in Bill's direction. He merely nodded or grunted. Even without first-hand knowledge of Chris' sordid past, Bill would have found him offensive. He exuded an aura of dirtiness. It made him sick to even look at him. Bill was not at ease with feelings of contempt but he figured they had their place in the primordial sense of recognizing hazards.
Chris lingered like shit stains in the toilet bowl for about an hour. The silence from Bill overwhelmed him. Bill only drank his own beer. It was an indictment through silence, one of the most potent rejection tools in the arsenal of human behavior. Even Chris' insipid, clumsy humor could not evoke even the slightest encouragement to relax from Bill. It broke him and he couldn’t take it anymore. He let out a faint goodbye to Bill and Sam walked him to the door. It closed silently. Four beers remained in the pack on the table. Bill had won through attrition.
Sam walked humbly back to the loveseat where he sat all night. "Don't you ever bring that mother-fucking son of a bitch here ever again!", Bill belted with furious indignation. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry, man, I'm really sorry." Bill popped another beer, offered one to Sam to soften the blow of the angry words. Sam took one hesitantly.
The home team eventually lost. Their starting pitcher blew it early. Their bats put in a valiant effort to only lose by a run. Sam went home in the hopeless bottom of the eight, about a half an hour after the exit of the colossal loser. "I'll talk to you tomorrow", said Sam. "Yeh, see you tomorrow." Sam got up and left. Bill groaned and had one last drag. The two cardboard carriers sat on the table. He took Chris' beer, looked at in disgust, and threw it in the kitchen garbage can. Four unfinished beers worth. He remained awake for one more hour and finally had peace on a wasted Thursday evening.
