Wall Street, at a pub called Ulysses, Thursday night. After the market lets out, especially now, when the district's streets are thick with fear, the shadowy corners of this pub are where Garret and I meet to bury our financial woes in Guinness and hot broads: Big brother and little brother, on the prowl. Except that Garret's in it for boys, not broads, which is kind of great, because we don't have to deal with any bullshit brotherly competition.
On this night, Milo Z has just finished their set and I'm dying for a smoke. Cigs have been banned in bars forever now but I still can't get used to watching a band and drinking a beer without lighting up. Standing outside, exhaling swirls of gray vapor into the damp night air, an exquisite thing brushes by me on her way into the bar, a blur of perfectly unkempt platinum hair, smudged downcast eyes, delicate wrists. She's not the usual stockbroker huntress type and something makes me want to grab her by her swingy little hips when I remember, the thing that's been bothering me, the problem I wanted Garret to troubleshoot for me tonight in that older sibling way of his. I stamp out my cigarette and follow the girl through the door, watching as she joins a table of lovelies not far from where I'm sitting with Garret. Reclaiming my stool, I nod in their direction.
"Bro," I say. "I gotta ask you something."
"Which one of those chicks you should go after?"
"Not yet," I shake my head. "You know, not to brag, but when I was younger I always got, like, rock hard. I mean, fucking granite hard. And I used to get about half an inch longer, too. And now," I pause, "I don't know what it is, but I'm just not like I used to be. And it's not like I'm not turned on in the moment, or whatever."
Garret makes a fake serious face.
"Maybe you need to try riding a horse of a different color, if you know what I mean," he says.
"Dude, come on," I groan. "This is not a coming out of the closet thing."
"Okay, okay." Garret laughs. "Let me ask you this: How many Marlboro breaks you taking lately?"
Taken by surprise, I consider. "Err, too many I guess. I mean, it's been pretty stressful around here, obviously...and I've been partying more, and the more I drink, the more I smoke..."
Garret interrupts me.
"It's the smoking," he says with certainty.
"How do you know?"
"Cause that's why I quit a few years back," he says, and laughs again. Then he goes on to tell me a bunch of stuff about how nicotine is a vasoconstrictor, which means it restricts blood flow - and since a man's erection depends on bloodflow, as little as two cigarettes can soften a hard-on.
I mull this over, letting my eyes wander over to the hot blonde's table, but hate the memory of what has been happening lately when I get them home. Garret follows my gaze.
"Listen man," he says, making his fake serious face again. "Screw your lungs. Do it for your dick." He slaps his hand on my shoulder and drains the last of his beer, nods his head towards the girl who will soon be mine. "I'm heading out, buddy. Go get her."—M.V.
