Turds in the Punch Bowl (A Story of No Ordinary Friendship) by Jen Ashton

bar of choice for his infamous break-ups on my behalf. We waltzed in around nine and the place was dead. That meant quick service and fast food for us, so we made our way to a table with a view of the flat screen.
    Sierra Gold was a local hotspot for the twenty-something crowd. It was adorned with Vegas history, slot machines and gold; gold chairs, a gold ceiling and Goldschlager. It was the kind of place where you’d expect to strike it rich, or in Joe’s case, strike out. They were always playing news or sports on the television, accompanied by an ear piercing decibel of heavy metal blaring from the surround sound. At any given moment you could watch Nancy Grace mouthing the words to ACDC. The atmosphere was quirky, but the food was good. We ate there often and Joey came there once.
    Jane was our favorite waitress. She had been serving us for months during the lunch rush and knew us by name. She was a cute brunette, twenty-ish, with tiny tits and wide hips. She was bubbly and her laugh was contagious. A few of her teeth pointed in the wrong direction, but it wasn’t enough to ruin her smile. She was always happy to see us. We tipped her well and in turn she brought us extra ranch and barbecue sauce, refilled our drinks regularly and made sure we had silverware. You know, all the gratuitous stuff you have to pay extra for. She was our favorite, and we may have also been hers.
    That night Jane was extra flirty; toward Joe, not me. She would say things overtly adorable like “Oh really?” or “You think?” in that cutesy way that girls do when they flip their ponytail and wink at you. Not that women do that to me, but I’ve seen it enough. Most of my friends are men. Anyway, Joe must have struck up a conversation and made plans with her while I excused myself to the restroom because he didn’t stay at the table long after I returned.
    “You cool?” he asked me, sliding out of his chair.
    “Yeah, why?”
    “Mind if I gamble for a minute?”
    Joe didn’t gamble with money. Women, on the other hand, he always had to. He never knew what he was going to get. His ex-wife was a clinical borderline personality; a certifiable Me Monster who threw telephone books at his head if he didn’t say what she wanted to hear. There was a bipolar stripper who once accused him of knocking her up after she told him she was married, even though she was ten weeks pregnant and Joe had only met her two days prior. There was the girl around the corner who lived with her nympho mother, one who pretended her uncle died to get out of a date and another who lied about being of age. Although Joe should’ve seen that one from a mile away; she still slept with her stuffed animals. There was a time when Joe would screw anything just to get laid. This night wasn’t much different; he was willing to do anything, including wet the waitress’s whistle at work in hopes to take her home at the end of her shift.
    “Go ahead,” I said reluctantly, noticing that Jane was waiting for him at the bar. She waved and I smiled. I hoped she would return him one piece.
    “Watch this!” he boasted.
    I half expected they would run off to the men’s room or the pantry or something. I figured Joe had it all planned out. The look on his face as he scooted in his seat and high-fived me before leaving made me think he had it in the bag. How wasn’t really of any consequence. I watched as he walked over and met her at the bar. Then he did it; the unthinkable. He actually sat down and gambled. He put money in the slot machine instead of where his mouth was. I was so disappointed.
    They ordered drinks and I prepared myself for a long night. Maybe an all-nighter. Joe was lousy at closing the deal. I kept one eyed peeled in case he needed my help. The other, unfortunately, watched two full episodes of Storm Stories on The Weather Channel. Once I realized a third one was about to start, I turned my attention back to Joe. I was about to get up and join him when I saw