"friendship"

The rain fell harder than it had all night, and beneath the marquee the two friends sat miserably on the bench. They had missed the bus, only to find out that the next and last one of the night had broken down. Their friends, who had left the club a half-hour earlier called Jim on his cell. Still drunk, they laughed at the pair of them, who would be stuck there all night.

“They could have called Hector at least,” Jim said.

Marcus looked over at him. He wore the hood of his Terrapins sweatshirt so it covered his eyes. He was a linebacker for the football team and however much he tried always looked somewhat threatening. “As if they would,” he muttered.

Jim looked at the patch of dry concrete before their feet. From the lip of the marquee, a steady run of water dripped. He stuck his hand in his jacket, rummaging for something, and then said, “Oh, goddamn them. They took my pack!”

Marcus made a noise.

“Hey, you got any more cigarettes?”

“On my last one, and I’m saving it for later.”

“Oh, c’mon man, I’m dying here,” Jim said.

“You think I’m having a good time?” Marcus said. “Fuckin’ rain. It’s my lucky last. I can’t let you smoke it.”

Everyone these days flipped a cigarette to signify their lucky last, the one they would smoke with the most relish, and Jim knew he couldn’t touch Marcus on that. He wouldn’t have given up his lucky last for anyone, especially in this rain.

“Can’t we share, man?” he asked, finally.
“I mean, we’re kind of in a situation, aren’t we? Aren’t there mitigating circumstances, or whatever?”

“You a fuckin’ lawyer or something? Go to hell.”

Jim sighed, tilting his head back. He wanted to stretch his legs out but he’d have gotten his shoes wet. There wasn’t much room under the marquee, and he doubted either of them would get any sleep. “You know,” he said. “They could have called Hector. Those drunk bitches. That’s the problem with our friends. They don’t give a shit. I mean, don’t you think real friends ought to have tried to do something?”

Marcus grunted in agreement.

“I mean, what the hell?” Jim continued.

“We’re gonna be here all night.”

As if in response, the wind pushed the rain so it slanted toward them.

“C’mon, man. Just one drag, that’s all I ask.”

“No can do.”

“This is what I’m talking about, man. Fuckin’ friendship don’t mean shit around here,” Jim said. He pulled his jacket together and crossed his arms, mumbling.

A few minutes later, Marcus stood and dug into his pockets to pull out his pack. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he reached into his other pocket and stopped.
“Fuck,” he mumbled through the cigarette.

Jim looked up. “What?”

“Lost my lighter,” Marcus said. He fumbled with his back pocket. “Wait. Ah, fuck, it’s gone.” He looked up to see Jim holding a red Bic in his palm. “Thanks, man,” Marcus said, reaching out for it.

Jim closed his hand in a fist and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Fuck you, man,” he said. “Go smoke your lucky last somewhere else.”

“Oh, c’mon you little bitch.”

“No can do.”

“Man, it’s my lucky last.”

“That means shit to me, dude.”

“Fine. We’ll share it, all right?”

“No. I don’t want your shit.”

Marcus kicked the bench and sat. The two friends watched the rain, each hating the other for his stubbornness. Years later, each would recall this moment at the other’s wedding, when the time came for the best man to give a speech. They both would say what they had learned of friendship over the years and what it meant to both of them when they finally relented, Jim offering his light and Marcus handing his cigarette over.