“Hey, Fat Kid,” Travis calls. “You in here?”

The room is a jungle gym of four-by-four posts spread around the room to support a loft that, in itself was another room. The front half of the spacious room, not covered by the loft, had three giant windows that looked out to the pillars of the front porch and Milledge Ave. There was a couch under the windows, and another one situated opposite of the first. From this second couch emerges a head, crowned by tattered black hair and bejeweled by two blue swollen eyes. “Oh,” says Ian.

“Come on, Pirata,” says Travis in a Mexican accent, coming around the front of the couch. “We are going eento town.”

“Wake up!” John chides, sitting on the couch under the windows. He pushes aside two empty whiskey bottles on the coffee table and puts his feet up.

Ian had sat up, rubbing his eyes. He is shirtless and wearing jeans. “Man, what time is it?”

“‘Bout four,” replies Travis, sitting down on the couch next to him.

“Shit.”

“Have a good time?” asks John.

“It was nuts.”

“Where’s Bubble-boy?” asks Travis, referring to Ian’s overly allergic, sickly roommate.

Ian laughs at hearing the name. “We ran him off I guess. He’s staying with his girlfriend for a while and then going home for the summer.” Standing up, Ian orients himself toward the bathroom, looking to be a bit off-kilter still. “God, she’s revolting.” He takes two steps before stopping to think about where he was off to. Turning, he says, “Le’me get a shower and I’ll go with you.”

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