Teen Angst? Naaah ... by Ned Vizzini Page B

Owen.
    â€œDude, it’s cool,” he said. “It just looks like it’s been used a lot.” At this point, we were pacing in front of the beer fridge like two stooges planning a jailbreak.
    â€œOwen,” I mumbled, pacing, “stop pacing.” He stopped.
    â€œOkay,” I took a fast breath, put my hand on the metal door handle, and pulled.
    It didn’t budge. It was a
sliding
door. I smiled,
slid
open the door, and grabbed a Corona.
    â€œCorona, Corona,” Owen chirped, impersonating Beavis.
    â€œHuh, yeah, Corona,” I responded, as Butt-head. I do a decent Butt-head.
    I proceeded to the cashier; Owen bravely stepped outside to wait for me. I put my Corona on the Lotto placemat and plopped two dollars beside it. Would two dollars pay for a twenty-two-ounce beer? I had to look as if I’d done this before.
    The cashier was a scruffy Hispanic guy who sat on a stool all day watching black-and-white TV. Irespect that. He turned away from the set and stared me dead in the eye. I stared back.
    â€œI.D.” He rose from his stool and held out his hand.
    I reached into my pocket, tugged it out, and slapped it down in front of him, as if people were always asking for my I.D. and it was a real nuisance.
    He picked it up and ran his fingers over it for a long time. Then, without warning, he took my money and rang up the sale. He put the Corona in a brown paper bag. I picked it up and left. He was already back to his TV.
    Outside, Owen was fidgeting. I marched up to him.
    â€œIt worked?”
    On cue, I popped the beer open with my Swiss Army knife. *
    â€œAaaaaaaah, yeeeah!”
Owen actually jumped in the air and hugged me.
    I drank some beer. It was like apple juice, in that it was yellow-brown and, if you drank fast enough, you didn’t taste it for a few seconds. When I finally did taste it, the beer was bitter—like dirt mixed with tap water. Every gulp I took made me thirstier, until all I really wanted was a Coke. Owen and I walked toa more secluded street, sat on the curb, and passed the bottle back and forth until only froth remained. Then we bought another.
    I had always thought alcohol was a ruse. That is, adults are never actually drunk; they just use liquor as an excuse to bump into things, have sex, and do whatever else pleases them. I assumed I’d have to put on a big show for Owen, acting stereotypically drunk. I didn’t expect the beer to have any real effect on me.
    The slurring began after two bottles. Light at first, then heavier as Owen and I sampled lower Manhattan’s permissive Mini Marts. I knew what I wanted to say, and my mouth seemed to work fine, but the last few words of each sentence mushed together. Plus I had no volume control; I talked like someone wearing headphones.
    I mentally gauged inebriation, comparing it to other forms of mental unrest, like smoking pot * and spinning around for a while in the living room. The loss of motor control and speech was interesting, but the overall effect was fatigue, and it wasn’t fun to be tired.
    I turned to Owen. “Okay, man, is there anywhere you want to go?”
    â€œI know a place, yeah,” he said.
    Owen led me uptown, through the Village, to a rundown side street—no cars but too well lit to be an alley. In the center of the street was a telephone pole, lying sideways, as if a tornado had just blown through. Circling it were punks—real, ridiculous, leather-pants-all-ripped-up, scabs-on-their-necks, skin-that’s-pasty-white-where-it-isn’t-filthy punks. They scared me. I stumbled behind Owen, pretending to be invisible.
    Owen strode by the punks and sat down on the telephone pole. I followed. The punks—seven guys and one girl—eyed us angrily. They each had distinguishing features: an exposed nipple, a big spike sticking out somewhere, a deformed finger.
    We simply sat. Nobody talked. Finally, the tallest punk, a guy with a wool hat and a dark bruise