Wealth. Prestige. Privilege. I took it all as my due. My parents are so brainwashed, it's pathetic really. There are no limits, and there shouldn't be.
I admit, the drinking has become something of a…crutch? No matter. Sure, Cherry hates the drinking, that little bitch.
Every day I drink at school, a little vodka in the orange juice just to get everything going in the right direction. My parents are too preoccupied to notice, my dad has his high powered career and my mother, in her designer dresses and pearls, she takes care of all the parties and social shit he doesn't have time to deal with. So they deal with that, I can do as I please.
Lately I've had this bored restlessness. Drinking used to fill it nicely. No more. The drinks are maintenance, really. I need new kicks, and I know how to get them.
A spring day, sunny, after school and I'm bored. I sat in my brand new blue mustang with Randy and we passed the flask back and forth.
"Hey, I got an idea," Randy looked only slightly wary, and I took the flask back from him and swigged it, lit a cigarette, flipped through the radio.
"Let's go to the east side, see what we can find," Randy shrugged, but the alcohol would help him along.
I don't know what it is but those greasers from the east side bug the shit out of me. They're a menance to society, cheap low life hoods. I like nothing better than to stomp on them, teach them who is in charge.
There is no excuse for poverty like that. My father works hard and we have the material goods to show for it. If the greasers' parents weren't drinking their paychecks away in those honky tonk bars, and gambling it away, and spending it on two dollar whores, then they wouldn't have to live in those run down shacks that make the city look like shit. When I get to thinking about it I really can't stand them.
"We'll pick up David and Thomas and we'll head over to the east side, find some fun," I said. Randy looked more agreeable, the drinking helps him to loosen up. We picked them up and cruised over to the poor sections. The houses needed painting, kind of leaned toward each other, ragged lawns, litter all over the place. I wanted to spit on these houses. Those goddamn greasy hoods, I'd show them, I'd show them…
As I drove I noticed how the sun reflected off my rings. The rings were thick, solid gold and silver, inlaid with onyx. The rings looked just right on my fingers as I gripped the steering wheel and headed deeper into the derelict section of Tulsa.
"Hey, Bob, look," David had been avidly starring out the window and noticed one of those punks in a vacant lot. Even from here I could see the grease gleaming in his hair, the run down clothes, low life little shit.
"A perfect victim," I said, feeling the alcohol making the day somehow overbright, the smoke on the windshield suddenly visible. I slowed the car and pulled closer to the field.
"Let's get him," Thomas said, smiling, showing all of his teeth.
"Wait," I said, and held up a hand. The kid held a football, kicked it a few times, didn't notice us. Then he did, even from here I could see his eyes widen in fear and I felt that rush, of power and anger just looking for a target.
"Now!" I said, and we got out of the car, the kid ran. But we caught him easily.
"Alright, you dirty greasy hood," I spat the words and felt rage just coursing through my veins, I wanted to kill this piece of trash, "You're gonna get it, now," David held him and he twisted and struggled but he was small and David wasn't. He had long black greasy hair that hung in his eyes, and I saw bruises on him already. Probably his father beats him, happens a lot with the scum on the east side. What will another beating hurt?
It felt so good to connect my fist with this kid's face and stomach and ribs, the satisfying impact of my fist into unrelenting bone.