My Cardboard Balcony

Maxson and Hodges by Belinda Roddie Maxson and Hodges wore hickory-colored suits every day to their jobs at the firm before shedding off the three-pieces and hightailing it to Well's to drink cold scotch and crunch ice over past lives. They snorted with laughter about their mothers and toasted to every day they survived without going bald or sucker punching the inept front desk clerk because the poor guy couldn't ell his left from his right. Hodges bought Maxson the last round one night, and Maxson in return gave him a Hamilton to cover. Hodges said, "No, sir, that's the point of buying a round. You don't have to pay me back." And dear old Maxon was so flabbergasted by this act of kindness from his lawsuit-obsessed, take-what-you-can attitude-bearing friend that he spontaneously combusted and left the ashes of his sports jacket all over the bar stool.

The crowd was ravenous for more burgers, more beer, and most of all, more music from the Headstones, the hottest band from the nineteen eighties. Everyone who was now at least in his or her thirties crowded around the main stage, the stale odor of generic IPA, body odor, and tobacco lingering around me. I had to hold my breath while I assembled the amps. "You good, Jill?" my boss asked.