How to Lose Everything by Philipp Mattheis

Author:Philipp Mattheis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zest Books
Published: 2013-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

“D-d-does anyone have anything to smoke?” Sam asked as he pulled a Heineken out of the cardboard container. The cap flew off and tumbled through the air, landing with a muted clink on the blacktop.

We shook our heads. Now that Eric was gone, we didn't really know what to do anymore. We'd lost our compass.

“Dan might have something,” I said.

“Does he sell?” asked Schulz.

“Not really. He always says he doesn't want to deal. But maybe we can make him an offer he can't refuse.”

Schulz giggled like a little kid. Our bottles clinked as we tapped them together. Some beer sloshed over my hand. We lay flat on our backs on the asphalt. Around us were cigarette packs, bottles of Jack Daniels, and all the rest of our stuff. We smoked our cigarettes while still on our backs, sitting up only to take a swig of beer.

“I've got a French test tomorrow,” I said. I had to laugh. Schulz snorted.

“What a load of shit.”

I said, “I don't think I'm gonna go to school. I'm gonna skip and we can go to the city. Or just get drunk.”

At that moment I felt a burden fall away from me. It was like that sensation I'd had in the McDonald's, only more complete. I think maybe what I was feeling was a sense of real freedom. Other people who had cooler clothes, who got better grades, who could skate better, or who had Jeep Wranglers—I really didn't care about them anymore. We were friends and we had money. Things were really getting started now.

“Do you think he'll come back?” I asked.

“I don't care,” said Schulz.

“H-he's got nothing now. No school, no home, no nothing.”

“Why don't you cry about it,” said Schulz. “It's his own fault. I think he'll be back soon. He'll run out of money faster than he thinks. Then he'll come and beg us for some. Just wait and see.”

“Jack Daniels,” said Sam, sitting up and reaching for the array of little bottles in front of him. He threw one to me and one to Schulz, and they landed on our stomachs.

“So, Sam. What were you doing in the basement?” asked Schulz.

“B-b-basement?”

“Yeah, why did you even go down there? And why were you acting so weird afterward?”

“W-w-weird?”

“Yeah, w-w-weird. Stop repeating everything I say.”

Sam looked quickly to the right and then to the left, like he was checking for eavesdroppers. Then he lowered his head toward us and whispered:

“B-b-bones!”

“B-b-bones?” echoed Schulz.

“B-b-bones!”

“B-b-bones.”

“C-can you stop repeating everything?” I said. “What kind of bones? Chicken bones? Dog bones? Human bones? What kind of bones were they?”

Sam took another Jack Daniels, twisted the top off, and chugged the whole thing.

“Just b-b-bones. There were b-b-bones. I dug deep down into the mound of dirt. Wanted to see what was in it. With the sh-sh-shovel. I was digging and then s-s-suddenly there were b-b-bones.”

Sam's stuttering could be so irritating sometimes.

“But you didn't have a flashlight. How did you manage to see anything?” Schulz said.

Sam looked at him questioningly.

“Chill out. You just imagined it.

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