“Some couples just sort of drift apart. We more or less slammed the door on each other.”
That was half-true, he thought. He was the one who slammed the door. She just yelled without yelling, her lips tight.
He wasn’t sure about this guy. He had on the suburban sales-bro uniform: khakis, a polo shirt with a company logo, Oakley Sunglasses held on his head backwards. They were both half drunk, but even still, he wasn’t sure about this guy. He still told him his story.
“Do you like to read?” the sales-bro said.
“Read, dude. Books. Man, I used to think I was gonna be an English professor or some shit. Modern Day Hemingway; read and write all week, work on cars on the weekend.”
He cracked up. Sales-bro looked like every douche he knew, but he was the type of douche who fantasized about the most stupid thing ever. He would love the Ice Cream Social pamphlet.
“No, man” sales-bro was sincere, almost begging him to listen.”You gotta respect a drunken southern writer who spins a yarn that breaks your heart, spills bourbon on his notebook.”
He laughed even harder, thinking about Blake’s boat whiskey. He couldn’t believe sales-bro said “Spin a yarn” and was now going on about Faulkner.
“You just want to hit on college girls again, man.”
Sales-bro laughed. “Well, that is a fringe benefit, but I’m serious! I love books. If I hadn’t had to actually make some money, I’d have a Ph.D.”
“My Daughter’s going to college soon.”
“But if she tells me she’s gonna be an English professor, we’re gonna have a talk. And not about Faulkner.”
“Shit, man. Tell you the truth–I do like to read, but when I’ve had a couple of these,” he held up his glass. “I start talking about shit I haven’t even read.”
He raised his glass. “This one’s for you, Sales-bro.”
“Sales-bro? What does that even mean?”
He just laughed.