Guy plunges into the billowy leather couch and rips his baseball hat off, hand over forehead.
Counter Girl: What’s the matter with you?
Guy: Aaaa, um tired. Hung right over.
Counter Girl: hung over, huh?
Guy: Aaaaa, yeah, just nine beers or so.
Counter Girl: I’d be dead with nine beers.
Guy: I took it slow in’at. About a beer an hour.
Counter Girl: Huh.
Recap of Penguin game with emphasis on Penguins having to get the Senators back for comments regarding the Penguins throwing a game to avoid the tougher Philly team.
Guy: I’d really like to be up by nine tomorrow morning. You know. Find a job.
Chick at round table: Curb your enthusiasm for beer and you just might be able get up.
Counter Girl: Nine beers is a lot.
Guy nodding, sighing, clearly evaluating the flurry of advice. "Yeah. Yeah. That sounds about right."
So, is this guy gonna pass up beer tonight so he can wake up early and look for a job? Write me three or four sentences depicting this fella’s next morning…come on I’ll give you a book if you do.
Ever heard that Kris Kristoffersen song ‘Monday Morning Coming Down?’ It starts off as follows: ‘Well I woke up Monday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt; And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad so I had one more for dessert.’ And believe me, the rest is every bit as satisfying in terms of lyrical beauty and realism. That’s what I picture the rest of this story being, but I’ll have a go at this anyway, not to steal Kris’s good verses.
Monday morning. An ugly grey light filtered through unwashed curtains, making Bud open one pickled-onion eye. It was raining. Burping massively, he sat up in bed, then swung his legs over the side and stepped onto the pile of clothes he’d left on the floor the night before. For one long moment, he considered putting them on. He yawned, wondering if he could get away with the same pair of underwear again.
He squints at the squawking alarm clock, trying to make sense of the glowing red lines on its face. What does it all mean?
“God my head…” he starts, but it hurts too much to speak.
He looks at the clock again, willing the numbers to take form in his head: 9:17. Huh? What the hell had he been thinking setting the alarm for so early anyway?
Rolling over with his face in his pillow, he fumbles his hand over the clock buttons until he finds the one just below and to the right of the snooze bar.
Click.
Blessed silence.
I think it will go just like this:
Guy plunges into the billowy leather couch and rips his baseball hat off, hand over forehead.
Counter Girl: What’s the matter with you?
Guy: Aaaa, um tired. Hung right over.
Counter Girl: hung over, huh?
Guy: Aaaaa, yeah, just nine beers or so.
Counter Girl: I’d be dead with nine beers.
Guy: I took it slow in’at. About a beer an hour.
Counter Girl: Huh.
Recap of Penguin game with emphasis on Penguins having to get the Senators back for comments regarding the Penguins throwing a game to avoid the tougher Philly team.
Guy: I’d really like to be up by nine tomorrow morning. You know. Find a job.
Chick at round table: Curb your enthusiasm for beer and you just might be able get up.
Counter Girl: Nine beers is a lot.
Guy nodding, sighing, clearly evaluating the flurry of advice. “Yeah. Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Sound familiar?