Uruguay

Bros vs. Hos, 45 minutes


I’d been visiting that house for more than half of my life, and it had become a second home for me. It was the home of a childhood friend with whom I was fortunate enough to maintain a constant and strong friendship well into adulthood.

We were sitting at his kitchen table—the same table I’d eaten at when his family invited me for dinner all those years ago—chatting and rolling joint after joint and sliding them into empty cigarette boxes. The blinds to the large window behind him were open, the dark of the very early morning pressing cold through the glass. I wondered if neighbors would know what we were doing.

“Two years is a long ass time,” he said, his tone as dim and somber as the lighting.

“Yeah, it is,” was all I could reply.

I’d already expressed how excited I was to be leaving, how great an adventure the Peace Corps would provide. I’d already assured him that I was sure I’d be able to find a steady source of marijuana in Uruguay. I mentioned it again as he placed another full cigarette box on the growing stack, and reached for another of the many empties.

“You never know,” he said, not looking up from his paper.


I almost didn’t get to spend that evening with him. Fortunately for me, he finally decided to be assertive.

“No, he’s coming over… Listen, we’ll fight about this later. He’s leaving for South America tomorrow. Amanda. Amanda. Amanda listen. He’s my best friend. He’s leaving for two years…. AMANDA. You can go back to your place if you’re going to act like that.”

He slapped the phone shut abruptly. I knew he was in deep shit, and appreciated the gesture more than anything he could have done for me. I wondered how many hours of grumbling and glaring he would have to endure after they finished their shouting match.

I arrived at his place before the summer sun began tinting the sky orange, and we wasted away the hours comfortably, as though we both knew that no extravagant plans or fancy celebration would compare to a few more hours of ‘chilling’.

More of my old friend trickled in, each wishing me well, some gripping my shoulder and letting me know with appropriate emotion that I would be missed. We spent that evening playing video games, drinking, and laughing over old memories. Twice, Amanda descended the stairs, stopping short of the living room, never leaving the stairs. Twice she glared around the living room full of smiles, and twice she climbed the stairs, more heavy-footed than her considerable heft usually caused.

We ignored her, and enjoyed the dying night. One by one my comrades left, leaving me with manly hugs and well wishes, leaving Jake and I to make our final preparations. A popcorn bowl full of fresh plant matter, a carton’s worth of empty Marlboro Red boxes, and several hundred rolling papers.

We worked and chatted like old women knitting, commenting on the irony that we should be crafting on the same table we’d done cub scout projects.

Somehow, she sidled up to the table without us noticing her, so we both jumped slightly when she spoke.

“Don’t you think you have enough joints?”

The tone of her voice was a familiar one, employed many a night when she decided it was time for us to leave. Before she came around I could often be found sleeping on one of the sofas in that house, but that summer, I’d been lucky to see Jake more than once a week. I knew what she wanted, but wasn’t ready to leave yet. I looked at the half carton of cigarette boxes full of expertly wrapped marijuana buds, considered the quantity with a very serious look on my face, looked at her and told her that I doubted it.

I’d never stood up to her before. Jake always had her back, and it was his house. She’s become so accustomed to the power, I was quite sure she had forgotten whose house it really was.

“Jacob Robert, I’m tired of having your fucking friends over here all the time. They stay too late. They’re too loud, and I’m tired.”

I would have rolled my eyes if I wasn’t so appalled at the title so recently bestowed. I was almost speechless. Almost.

“Hey Amanda,” I said cheerfully, “fuck off.”

I gave her a broad smile and she turned a funny color.

“I think maybe you’d better go home, Ryan,” she said to me, hands on hips.

I looked over at Jake, wondering how the night would end.

"I... Think its time for you to leave," he said, not looking at me.

Amanda smirked at me and nodded toward the door.

"Good night, Amanda," Jake finished, looking her straight in the face before turning back to his work.

The Other Side