The walk up the stairs was a tangle of tripping limbs, beer sloshing over the tops of the plastic mugs that we weren’t supposed to have. The CTA attendant scolded us (“Boys, alcohol isn’t allowed on the—”) but what did we care? We were young and tipsy and wild, just as people our age should be. We were no longer in school, but the rusted hooks of adulthood had not yet dragged us down.
We were laughing, talking, shouting—I don’t remember what about. It doesn’t matter. The point is, a train was pulling into the station. Tag wiped the foam off his lips, tossed his cup to the ground, and slammed himself against the still-moving train.
“What the fuck, bro?” I tried to grab him, but he slipped away and did it again, giggling like a child. Like a maniac, even. His body made a sick slapping sound against the side of the car. I started sweating.
Finally, the train stopped and I pulled Tag inside. “You trying to kill yourself?” I asked. He looked at me, his eyes dark and shining at the same time. “I’m gonna have bruises in the morning,” he said.
Back to normal stories. Only got three requests for the Memorial Day Challenge. My friend Matt is coming from Ohio this weekend! Who doesn't love catching up with old friends?