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"Did we do it last night?" I asked as I slowly removed my arm from under Lindsey’s head and stretched out. I yawned slowly, mimicking my old cat. Lindsey knew her part, and she reached down and scratched my belly.
"I don’t know. Did we?" Lindsey turned to face me and smiled as her eyes met mine.
"Well, judging by my open drawer, I’d say we did."
"Well, judging by my failed memory, I’d say it wasn‘t very good. I would have remembered good." Her eyebrows raised at her own remark, and I couldn’t help but smile at the face she made.
"Aren’t you hilarious?"
"Aw, you know I’m just playing with you."
"Yeah, well you can’t blame me anyway. Blame that cunt Rodd Watts and his lack of taking on any responsibility."
"Don’t use that word. I hate that word."
"I won’t say his name again then."
"Russell, you know exactly what I’m talking about."
And I did. She was talking about the word "cunt". The word that had rung in my head throughout my middle school years had made it into my vernacular only recently. But it was fun to say. Had a nice ring to it. Sounded sharp, and to the point, like "bunt", only with a "C" at the beginning. And why shouldn’t I use the word? It’s the perfect word to describe Rodd Watts. He was nothing more than a fat, hairy, cunt of a man. He’s the kind of kid that everyone knows and no one likes. His dad, a heart surgeon and real estate developing whiz, had given Rodd everything he had ever wanted on a silver platter. No, fuck that. He had given Rodd everything he had ever wanted on a fucking golden platter, complete with a golden covering and a diamond handle, with platinum flowers and humming birds forged intricately into the medal. Like I said, he was a complete cunt.
I didn’t meet Rodd Watts until I was sixteen. That’s when he began attending our high school. The year was 1997, and he had a 1997 Volvo S70. To say it was loaded would have been an understatement. He was your regular run of the mill rich white kid that listened to ghetto war rap music. Even then he was being cultivated by Dr. Dre to worship the then soon to be released Eminem. He had a passion for being a bigger bad ass than anyone else around. He had to drink more alcohol, drive at faster speeds, and screw more girls than his competition. His competition was anyone within 4 years of his age. So when he ran his Volvo into a large forest, after missing a curve due to his consummation of Crown Royal (his personal favorite liquor) no one was really all that surprised. His Volvo was soon replaced with a 1996 BMW 325i, and his DUI charge was replaced with a high priced lawyer. He was back on the road in no time. That was until he had another accident. This time, instead of hitting an innumerable amount of trees, he ran into a ditch and flipped his car. Unfortunately for him, the police were soon there, handing him tickets like they were fliers to a Snake Oil Medicine Show. I wasn’t there, but when I picture it I can almost hear the officers saying, "Take four, and show your friends." Rodd came into school the next morning waving his tickets over his head as if he had just made the game winning catch in the World Series. He ran into me at the vending machine. I had seen him coming, had seen his eyes searching for someone to talk to, and I desperately pushed the Cherry Pepsi button once, twice, three times. I was eager to lose sight of Rodd, to get away from him, even if it meant going to class a few minutes early. When the lukewarm Pepsi plunked into sight, I quickly scooped it up and readied myself to take flight.
"Russell," he growled. I was too late. "Hey, did you hear what happened to me last night, Russell?" His voice has constantly baffled me. I’ve never heard anyone else talk like him. He talks with a low growlish-nasally enhanced muffled voice. Almost as if he were British trying to fake an American accent. It’s annoying, but easy to make fun of and it’s always funny to hear someone talk like him.
"Nah, what happened." I leaned up against the vacant lockers, looked directly at Rodd and awaited his story.
"Oh shit man, I got arrested last night. I flipped my car over by the swim club, you know that sharp curve? Well I was going about eighty around it and I went right into the ditch. Fucked my car up! It was crazy, the police were there in seconds, I think they were sitting out there waiting or something. Look at these tickets." He handed me four neatly written, unfolded tickets. I could imagine walking into Rodd’s room a week or two later and seeing them framed on his wall. I didn’t even look at the charges. I couldn’t have cared any less about his trouble with the law. Rodd was little more than a living joke to me.
"Damn, that sucks."
"Yeah, fuck it. Those cops have been wanting to pin something on me for a while. I don’t give a fuck. My lawyer will get me out of it." He handed me his lawyers card. I gave an exasperated sigh, that I quickly changed into a laugh, just so he wouldn’t know how I really felt.
"Looks good, man. You think he’ll get you out of it?"
"Fuck, yeah, man, he got me out of my other DUI. He’s the best in the state, the judges are afraid to let him lose."
And this was your typical Rodd Watts conversation. He didn’t lie about the trouble he had been into, he didn’t have to. It was always, "I’m so fucking drunk, look what happened, you’ll never guess how I got away," and more bullshit than you ever wanted to hear. His cup runneth over with trite remarks that would astound someone who didn’t know him, and make the people who did know him want to change the subject. Rodd was a cunt, and his cunt qualities had come out last night, and had kept me from remembering sex with my beautiful girlfriend, Lindsey Wellington.
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