I Agianst I

My phone started vibrating as I was pulling clothes out of my backpack.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’d like to report um, a murder, a dead body or somethin’.”

“Where at?”

“In the alley.”

I smiled. It was my best friend, Maurice. The two of us were reciting the intro to a song that we both liked.

“Yo, guess what, nerd? I’m home.” I said.

“Really?! Awwww, yes.”

“I gotta go to the doctors in a bit, but wanna hang out after?”

“Hell yeah, dude! You home for the day?”

“Nah, the weekend.”

“Yessssss. Does that mean we’re on for pizza, Gool?”

“You fuckin’ know it, Gaba.”

“Yes! Alright, I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, see ya.”

For the rest of the afternoon, I lounged in my bedroom, listening to records and playing video games. In the back of my mind, I felt a little guilty for doing so. 

Shouldn’t you be doing your work? 

-Fuck off.

My phone read 6:27. I turned off my console and opened the group chat. “@Maurice im leaving”, I said as I put my coat on and fetched my keys.

Ten minutes later, I arrived at my friend’s house. 

Maurice emerged from inside. I could see that he had a huge smile on his face, so as he approached the car, I pressed the lock button.

His smile contorted into a frown. He crossed his arms and started to move back towards the house.

“Go ahead. Back away. Back away,” he challenged.

“What? You want me to pirouette?”

As much as we tried, it was no use in trying to pretend that we hated each other, so we both burst out laughing.

I unlocked the car door and Maurice slid in.

“Good evening, sire.”

“Ayy, what’s up,” I said as my friend dapped me up. 

“Nothin’ much. You?”

“Same.”

“Nice. Good to hear.”

“How’s work?”

“Eh, it’s alright, I guess. Get this: so, this week like fuckin’ five of my clients cancelled their appointments. I didn’t even have to go in Wednesday.”

“Damn that’s frustrating. Has this been happening a lot?” I started to worry.

“Yeah, but the manager said that she’s gonna switch me with one of my coworkers so I’ll get new hours. Plus, my coworker’s clientele is better.”

“Alright, good.” I hesitated before I asked the next question. 

“Have you considered looking for a second job?”

“Yeah, but right now that doesn’t really fit with my schedule,” Maurice said, fending off any further questions. I understood.

“Hey, can I play something?” my friend asked.

“Yeah, sure.” 

I handed Maurice the aux cable.

“Sweet, thanks.”

As I turned onto I-95, Maurice started blasting the most rugged underground hip-hop that New York had to offer. I reached for the dial and turned that shit up. 

Ever since we first became friends, the two of us loved sharing music with each other. As we got older and I got my driver’s license, the two of us would listen to music out of my mom’s Volvo, and then my own car. Everyone around us would also listen, whether they wanted to or not.

I caught a glimpse of Maurice’s glasses as I merged in to the right lane.

“Did you get new galsses?”

“Yup. You like ‘em?”

“Yeah they look nice, but you should consider taking them off.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, dude. You already look sexy enough without ‘em. At this point you’re just showing off.”

“Hahaha. Fuckin’ deal with it, you nerds.”

“Heh. Where’d you go, Pearle Vision?”

“Mhm. Oh, before I forget, my mom has some old vinyls that she’s looking to get rid of. She thought you might be interested,” Maurice said as I continued down the highway.

“Ooh, what’s she got?”

“Uh, a bunch of stuff. Nat King Cole, Sam Cook, uh, I think a couple Cher records, some jazz...”

“Any Miles Davis?”

“Nah, but she does have a Duke Ellington record.” 

“Alright. What else?”

“Um, oh, she does have George Clinton as well, forgot about that.”

“Hmm.”

“Whadda ya think?”

“Well,” I pondered, “I think that... ‘we want the funk!’”

“Give up the funk!” Maurice responded.

Just then, “Feel Good, Inc.” by the Gorillaz came on. Maurice and I replaced the song’s instrumentals with our own concoction. 

“J-J-J-J-Jet Fuel”

“Steel beams”

“Bush did nine e-le-ven”

“Steel beams.”

We did this until the song ended.

   A few years back, Maurice and I made it a point to try every pizza place within our radius to see which one was truly the best. Since we lived in the pizza mecca of the United States, this was no small task. We gave each other code names based on our favorite cold cut. Maurice was Gaba, and I was Gool. We weren’t just interested in the pizza itself; we also took note of a restaurant’s selection of beer, how good the service was, what the restaurant looked like, as well as the general vibe. To us, eating pizza is an experience. 

Tonight’s target: Mama Minna’s Apizza. As soon as we got off the exit ramp, I rolled down my windows and cranked the volume up to the max. People out and about became very offended by what they were hearing come out of my speakers. They found the music to be an affront to the dignity of their small Connecticut town. This kind of shit should remain in the city!

I slowed down as we got closer to the target. Once I found a place to park, we wasted no time on our infiltration. The interior was not unlike any other of the hundreds of places we’ve scoured. the kitchen was on our right side; its large ovens built to craft the heavenly amalgamation of warm, fluffy dough, rich, creamy tomato sauce, and stringy, mouth-watering cheese proudly on display. On the counter was an assortment of fliers advertising local businesses and events. Almost immediately, we noticed the pop music emanating from the speakers perched in the back corner. Not our preferred choice, but it was understandable.

A server noticed two intruders and sprang into action. “Hi guys, here to pick up?”

Gaba returned fire with his tried-and-true response. “Nah, we’re here to dine in. Two please.” 

“Alright, follow me please.” 

The server lured us deeper and deeper into the restaurant. The dining area was dimly lit, with each booth containing a tiny lamp to enhance the mood. The server put two menus and some silverware down onto a table near the rear exit and beckoned us to sit down.

After we slid into the booth, the server looked at us and asked “Can I start you two gentlemen off with something to drink?”

Gaba and I picked up the drink menu, its fake leather casing sliding into our line of sight with ease. We gazed at the menu for a short time before locating its most important section: “Alcoholic Beverages.”

I drew first blood. “I’ll have the, uhh, pilsner, please.”

Gaba followed suit. “Can I have the Yuengling, please?”

The server wrote down our desired drinks. Then, he tried to thwart our plans by leading us into a trap: “Do you guys want any appetizers, or do you know what you want?”

We would not allow this underling to make us look like amateurs. I politely declined, and then turned to my partner to confer on our main objective. Because we had been doing this for so long, neither of us had to say a word; we simply smiled, nodded, and looked our server in the eye in perfect synchronicity.

“Yeah can we have, um, a large pizza, half pepperoni, and can you make that, uhh, boneless?”

“What?” The server did not anticipate such a request.

“What?” Gaba tried to disorientate him, but he couldn’t keep up the charade for too long. “Hahah. I’m just joking.”

The server relaxed. “Oh, hahahaha, ok. So just a large half pepperoni?”

“Yep.”

“Anything else?”

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Alright, it’ll be out shortly!” The server then relieved us of the menus and made haste.

I made sure the server went back into the kitchen before taking out my wallet and handing Maurice a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you, sir.” He said. “Next time, I’ll make you say some dumb shit.”

“You really think I don’t wanna?”

“Doesn’t matter, everything that comes out of your mouth is dumb.”

“Oh! By the way, I love you and you’re very handsome.”

“Oh!” Now Maurice was the one being bamboozled. “Oh dude, I totally forgot to tell you! You know that new song I’ve been working on? I finally found a beat that I’m gonna use!”

“Oh shit, that’s awesome! Can I hear it?”

“Yeah.” Maurice took out his phone and opened his messages. “So, this was made by a guy who goes by Thief of Baghdad. He produced The Boiler Room by Jarv, remember?”

“Holy shit, really? You got that dude to make you a beat? That’s fucking sick.”

“I know, right?! Here.”

Maurice slid his phone across the table and I put it up to my ear.

“That’s so fuckin’ cool,” I said as I handed my friend his phone back. “So, what, did you just, like, ask him and he said ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll make a beat for you’?”

“Yup. That simple.”

“Shit, dude.”

“What’d ya think?”

“Let’s put it this way: yes, hello, I would like you to play that song again.”

“Hmm, which one, man?”

“The one that goes,” and I started imitating a certain part of the beat.

“Nah, man, you’re thinking of the one that goes,” and Maurice started imitating another part.

We both laughed at our effort to recreate a classic SpongeBob moment.

Eating pizza with my best friend made me ecstatic. It made me laugh at how something so mundane, and something that we had done countless times before, could still bring the same sensation of delight as the first time. I was fortunate to have a friend like Maurice, and every emotion he shared, every moment of triumph, or even despair, I did my best to emulate, to let him know that he need not feel abandoned. 

“Oh so you wanna hear some bullshit that happened last week?” Maurice asked.

“What, what happened?”

“So I went to fuckin’ uhh, Satriale’s Pizza last week for just a small pie and a coke, know how much that shit cost?”

I shrugged. “I dunno, tree fiddy?”

“Bro I fucking wish! They charged me like $18!”

           “What?!”

           “I know! I’m like ‘Eighteen dollars?! My guy if you’re gonna charge me that much then you better introduce me to Sir Richard Suckington as well.”

           I couldn’t help but laugh.

           “God, what a fucking travesty,” I sighed.

“Yeah. So, speaking of travesties, how’s grad school going?” Maurice inquired.

“It’s alright. Gotta start work on a research paper.”

“Eew.”

“Yeah, exactly. Somebody in my program said that they’re already seeing a therapist because of how stressed they are.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, can you believe that shit? We’re not even like three weeks in and already people are cracking.”

“Yeah, sounds tough. Glad that person’s getting help, though.”

“Whadda ya mean?”

“I dunno, good for them for seeking out someone to talk to. I tried to see a therapist, by the way.”

“What, you can’t?”

“Nah, I can, but I could never find one that understood my issues. It was all just a bunch of white guys.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. I remember one time, like-” before Maurice could finish his sentence, the server came to our table with the pizza.

“Here you are gentlemen, enjoy!”

“Thank you!” I grabbed the pie knife and served my friend and I both a slice. “So, you were saying?”

“Hm? Oh yeah, there was this one time where I was talking with this dude and he said how I wasn’t ‘motivated enough’, and then this dickhead said something, like, ‘It must be hard, y’know, growing up in the streets and whatnot.’”

My eyes bugged. “What?! ‘The streets’?”

“Yeah, I know, right! I’m like ‘Streets? Motherfucker, I live in a house!’ and got up and left.”

“Good for you. So, you said you didn’t find anyone after that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What about, like, I dunno, your parents?”

“Nah. They wouldn’t get it.”

“Yeah, heh heh.”

I tried to sort out the emotions I was feeling as I bit in to my pepperoni slice. I was happy that Maurice was okay with me going to therapy, but at the same time, I was crushed by learning that he couldn’t get access to the same services that I could. I vividly pictured myself beating the shit out of that therapist that said all of those racist things to my friend.

Later that night, I let my inner thoughts hammer me over how good I had it, and how my problems were nothing compared to what my friend had to endure.

What the fuck are you so worried about? At least you have someone to talk to. Maurice has to tough it out whether he likes it or not? Why can’t you be more like him?

My thoughts then started to amplify.

Remember what you did? How you betrayed your friendship and you still have the nerve to call him your companion? For shame.