10-05-2013, 12:30 AM
Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, Massachusetts. It's Thursday night, and traffic can be seen zipping up and down this artery of the city, as students at Boston University mix with city commuters. The 57 bus, a staple of the area, shuttles city folk of all kinds at a rapid clip.
A streetlight outside of the nearby Subway is broken, and a tall, lanky BU student of Asian descent has just made his way out of the restaurant. Being a college kid (an idiot), he's too excited to eat his piping hot, fresh Italian BMT sub to notice oncoming traffic, and with the light above him being out, oncoming traffic can't seem to notice him either, despite being a 19-year-old Yao Ming. As he plants his black Adidas shoes on to the cracked pavement, a black Nissan Altima comes zipping down the busy street. Roaring along at a fervid pace, blaring "Gloom" by The Devil Wears Prada, the car reaches the kid. The kid, oblivious to his environment, is clipped by the Altima, cracking the passenger side rear view mirror, stumbling to the ground. The Altima, its driver and passenger noticing the calamity that has just ensued, hit the brakes, the car skidding sideways. Briefly at a stopping point, the driver and its passenger consider their options:
A) Help the innocent, albeit stupid, student who just got practically stabbed in the ribs by a motor vehicle and face the ramifications of arguably reckless driving, or
B) Get the hell out of there as quickly as possible and hope that no one notices.
If you, as the reader, chose Option B...
Ding ding! You win!
The Nissan Altima revs its engine, flinging itself in the opposite direction of Commonwealth Avenue, as our frightened student lays on the ground, not incredibly hurt, but stunned by the events that have just occurred... as well as his Italian BMT sub, which he managed to fall on top of upon getting hit. Not surprisingly (at least for a college kid), he was more worried about the well-being of his sandwich than his own body.
The Altima speeds down the road for a good 500 feet before realizing that the coast is clear. Slowing down, the Altima reaches a more steady, relaxed pace. The camera glides along, music still blaring, as the moonroof slides open. Appearing from the top of the car is a man, or, a woman? Well, someone with long hair, who eagerly climbs through the opening, his/her waist and everything above bursting out of the car as it makes its way through the Boston college nightlife. This person's hair flows in the window, smile on his/her face...
It's Tony Santos, obviously.
The driver? A high school buddy of Tony's, who, after reuniting with Tony over what was supposed to be a drink or two was now greatly regretting his decision. No, no, the driver wasn't drunk; not in the slightest. Tony was wasted beyond repair, however, and had been taunting passersby all the way from the dive bar in Chinatown that they had visited that evening. What was supposed to be a joy ride had turned into a great escape. An escape from this situation; from Tony Santos.
Santos: Hahaha, I'm king of the world, you motherfuckers!
Tony was in fact doing his best Titanic impression from above the car: hands out, his cheeks being blown back by the pounding wind, hair flailing backwards. His driver, a young 20-something by the name of Therron Hamlin (his parents didn't like him very much), took this as the perfect opportunity to...
*Screech*
Come to a complete and sudden stop in the middle of the road. Santos loses his Jack Dawson pose and lands, elbows first, on the roof of the car. The line of cars behind them immediately come to a halt, and a sea of car horns follow like a wave crashing toward the beach. Santos slowly wobbles upright, smacks the roof of the car in disapproval, then swivels around, only to flip off everyone behind him. This, not so surprisingly, doesn't elicit the kindest of reactions, especially from drivers who have the worst reputation when it comes to patience and level-headedness of anyone in the country. Curse words get thrown, some accusations of femininity toward their trusty antagonist, and just a whole lot of hatred.
Therron, a kid who growing up, given the name chosen for him and the taunting that followed him up to graduation, took no time in once again masking his insecurities by doing something "masculine" and "rebellious," at least in his own mind: he slammed on the gas pedal and took off like a bat out of hell. As they tear down Comm Ave, Santos falls back in to the car, plopping his back against the back seat and staring at the road ahead, nonchalantly, as it buzzes by.
Santos: Damn, Therron, why ya gotta ruin my moment out there? I was, like, Jack fucking Dawson for a few seconds, until you had to take that away from me.
Therron: You were acting like an idiot, Sully.
Tony, hearing his real last name being used, and not just that, but a nickname for his real last name, the one that he hated, so much so that he changed it to Santos upon dropping out of college and becoming a wrestler, glares at Therron.
Santos: Porky, you should know by now that I hate being called Sully. I didn't like it in elementary school, didn't like it in middle school, and I sure as hell didn't like it when those entitled fucks at Dedham High used it. It's Santos to you. Tony... Santos.
Tony, of course, came back with Therron's reviled high school nickname, "Porky," which wasn't just a poor play on a last name that had the word "ham" in it, but also made fun of Therron's once pudgy figure. It was a nickname that stuck and scarred him so badly as a kid that he went on a workout/starvation binge, to the point where he was thrown into therapy... for one session, then he just never showed up for future sessions.
Therron: You're a funny man, aren't you, Tony? (He couldn't get himself to call Tony by his more "exotic" last name. Hasn't changed much since then, has it? You're the same guy doing whatever it takes to get a rise out of someone, whether it be a smile, a laugh, or an angry outburst. Attention is attention, isn't that right, Tony? Being consistently drunk as a skunk is all fine and dandy, as long as you're doing it at a bar, at a sporting event, even a public park, right? That's what it seems like from watching that wrestling thing that you do every once and a while on TV, at least.
Tony, slumped back in the back of the car, eyelids practically shut, smiles.
Santos: I do it for the fans, baby. All for the fans.
Therron shrugs his shoulders. He's not completely in disagreement with Tony's lifestyle, just satisfying that critical itch of his that he's had since he was a kid. What better way to let off some steam than to chastise a former high school classmate who, while he was technically your "friend," the relationship was more or less a smoking partnership... a chance to play hooky, than any real, true friendship.
**************************
Skip ahead ten minutes and we're back in Brighton, Massachusetts. Therron, whipping the car down the road, attempts to jolt a sleeping Tony awake with a quick jolt from side-to-side, but to no avail. Reaching Tony's apartment... well, reaching what he thought was Tony's apartment, he SLAMS on the brakes, and Tony's body is catapulted in to the back of the passenger's seat.
Surprisingly, going nose first in to a solid seating contraption, thanks to the wonders of inertia, is a bit uncomfortable. Instead of falling backwards, a drunken and defeated Santos crumbles sideways, falling to his left and hitting the car floor.
Therron: Well, this has been fun, Sully, but it's time for both of us to head home. This is your stop!
Tony crawls to the rear driver's side door, lifts a weak arm, and manages to pull just enough at the handle for an almost silent *click* to be heard, the door slightly opening. Tony pushes the door open, then, to his surprise, he slides out of the back seat, awkwardly pressing his face against the concrete, the rest of his body weight pushing down on his head. Sure, he had an oversized head, but only figuratively. That was only thanks to his excessively large ego, rather than any physical power that his head contained. Tony flops out of the car, does a butt slide to the curb, and closes the back door with his foot. Just as Therron can be heard switching gears, Tony speaks...
Santos: Wait... wait!
Tony gets to his knees, grabs the rearview mirror (you know, the one that didn't assault a human being), and pulls himself up to his feet. Therron looks at Tony, as Tony extends his hand for a handshake. Therron, appreciating this bit of humanity, smiles and places his right hand out for Tony. Tony smiles and...
Smacks Therron across his left cheek before drunkenly sprinting for his apartment door.
Therron: You can go to hell, Sullivan!...
Therron says as he speeds off.
Tony, making his way to his little stoop in Brighton, sprints up the stairs. Missing a step, Tony slams his shin against the hard, wooden step.
Santos: Fuck!
Not deterred from his quest for his comfortable, albeit booze-infested, bed, Tony quickly lips himself up and makes his way for the door. After fumbling with his keys for what feels like an eternity (but is only about 15 seconds), Tony lifts the key to the lock, when he notices a sign. A sign which just states, in capital letters, "EVICTED."
Stunned, Tony nonetheless attempts to get in to his apartment. Sleep is the primary goal here. He'd worry about a landlord quarrel in the morning. Sliding the key in the lock, Tony finds that he, well, can't turn it. At all.
Santos: You son of a bitch!
He yells this just loud enough to ensure that his landlord, who lives in the duplex next door, can hear him.
Tony slams his keys on the ground, yanks his phone from his left pocket, and calls Shannon...
He stops, as he notices a voicemail from Shannon an hour earlier...
Shannon: Tone! I hope you get this soon. Maximo...
His landlord was an Italian named Maximo, but that's neither here nor there.
Shannon: ...has been trying to get in touch with you. Apparently you haven't paid your rent in six months, so he, well, kicked you out. But don't worry! I have all of your things packed up in a U-Haul outside of my apartment.
Oh! And I have a backup plan, and a rather good one! Tone, I'm moving out of my place tomorrow morning and we're moving to... Miami! Please catch a cab over to my apartment as soon as you get this so we can be ready to leave ASAP tomorrow!
Miami, Tony! We're moving to paradise!
Tony, mouth agape, moves the phone from his ear and just lets it fall from his grasp. Stumbling to the white, wooden rail on his porch, he lets his arms rest weakly as he took in what had just occurred over a span of two minutes. Tony, head down, hair dangling toward the ground, lets himself breathe for a minute or two. Heavy, but increasingly calm, breaths, as he tries to not go on a murderous, drunken rampage through the neighborhood that was no longer his.
Tony lifts his head, brushes his hair back, and stares blankly ahead.
Santos: Miami? I'm moving to a god damn Latino cesspool. Fuck.
As the camera pans away, a song can be heard in the background before the scene fades to black.
A streetlight outside of the nearby Subway is broken, and a tall, lanky BU student of Asian descent has just made his way out of the restaurant. Being a college kid (an idiot), he's too excited to eat his piping hot, fresh Italian BMT sub to notice oncoming traffic, and with the light above him being out, oncoming traffic can't seem to notice him either, despite being a 19-year-old Yao Ming. As he plants his black Adidas shoes on to the cracked pavement, a black Nissan Altima comes zipping down the busy street. Roaring along at a fervid pace, blaring "Gloom" by The Devil Wears Prada, the car reaches the kid. The kid, oblivious to his environment, is clipped by the Altima, cracking the passenger side rear view mirror, stumbling to the ground. The Altima, its driver and passenger noticing the calamity that has just ensued, hit the brakes, the car skidding sideways. Briefly at a stopping point, the driver and its passenger consider their options:
A) Help the innocent, albeit stupid, student who just got practically stabbed in the ribs by a motor vehicle and face the ramifications of arguably reckless driving, or
B) Get the hell out of there as quickly as possible and hope that no one notices.
If you, as the reader, chose Option B...
Ding ding! You win!
The Nissan Altima revs its engine, flinging itself in the opposite direction of Commonwealth Avenue, as our frightened student lays on the ground, not incredibly hurt, but stunned by the events that have just occurred... as well as his Italian BMT sub, which he managed to fall on top of upon getting hit. Not surprisingly (at least for a college kid), he was more worried about the well-being of his sandwich than his own body.
The Altima speeds down the road for a good 500 feet before realizing that the coast is clear. Slowing down, the Altima reaches a more steady, relaxed pace. The camera glides along, music still blaring, as the moonroof slides open. Appearing from the top of the car is a man, or, a woman? Well, someone with long hair, who eagerly climbs through the opening, his/her waist and everything above bursting out of the car as it makes its way through the Boston college nightlife. This person's hair flows in the window, smile on his/her face...
It's Tony Santos, obviously.
The driver? A high school buddy of Tony's, who, after reuniting with Tony over what was supposed to be a drink or two was now greatly regretting his decision. No, no, the driver wasn't drunk; not in the slightest. Tony was wasted beyond repair, however, and had been taunting passersby all the way from the dive bar in Chinatown that they had visited that evening. What was supposed to be a joy ride had turned into a great escape. An escape from this situation; from Tony Santos.
Santos: Hahaha, I'm king of the world, you motherfuckers!
Tony was in fact doing his best Titanic impression from above the car: hands out, his cheeks being blown back by the pounding wind, hair flailing backwards. His driver, a young 20-something by the name of Therron Hamlin (his parents didn't like him very much), took this as the perfect opportunity to...
*Screech*
Come to a complete and sudden stop in the middle of the road. Santos loses his Jack Dawson pose and lands, elbows first, on the roof of the car. The line of cars behind them immediately come to a halt, and a sea of car horns follow like a wave crashing toward the beach. Santos slowly wobbles upright, smacks the roof of the car in disapproval, then swivels around, only to flip off everyone behind him. This, not so surprisingly, doesn't elicit the kindest of reactions, especially from drivers who have the worst reputation when it comes to patience and level-headedness of anyone in the country. Curse words get thrown, some accusations of femininity toward their trusty antagonist, and just a whole lot of hatred.
Therron, a kid who growing up, given the name chosen for him and the taunting that followed him up to graduation, took no time in once again masking his insecurities by doing something "masculine" and "rebellious," at least in his own mind: he slammed on the gas pedal and took off like a bat out of hell. As they tear down Comm Ave, Santos falls back in to the car, plopping his back against the back seat and staring at the road ahead, nonchalantly, as it buzzes by.
Santos: Damn, Therron, why ya gotta ruin my moment out there? I was, like, Jack fucking Dawson for a few seconds, until you had to take that away from me.
Therron: You were acting like an idiot, Sully.
Tony, hearing his real last name being used, and not just that, but a nickname for his real last name, the one that he hated, so much so that he changed it to Santos upon dropping out of college and becoming a wrestler, glares at Therron.
Santos: Porky, you should know by now that I hate being called Sully. I didn't like it in elementary school, didn't like it in middle school, and I sure as hell didn't like it when those entitled fucks at Dedham High used it. It's Santos to you. Tony... Santos.
Tony, of course, came back with Therron's reviled high school nickname, "Porky," which wasn't just a poor play on a last name that had the word "ham" in it, but also made fun of Therron's once pudgy figure. It was a nickname that stuck and scarred him so badly as a kid that he went on a workout/starvation binge, to the point where he was thrown into therapy... for one session, then he just never showed up for future sessions.
Therron: You're a funny man, aren't you, Tony? (He couldn't get himself to call Tony by his more "exotic" last name. Hasn't changed much since then, has it? You're the same guy doing whatever it takes to get a rise out of someone, whether it be a smile, a laugh, or an angry outburst. Attention is attention, isn't that right, Tony? Being consistently drunk as a skunk is all fine and dandy, as long as you're doing it at a bar, at a sporting event, even a public park, right? That's what it seems like from watching that wrestling thing that you do every once and a while on TV, at least.
Tony, slumped back in the back of the car, eyelids practically shut, smiles.
Santos: I do it for the fans, baby. All for the fans.
Therron shrugs his shoulders. He's not completely in disagreement with Tony's lifestyle, just satisfying that critical itch of his that he's had since he was a kid. What better way to let off some steam than to chastise a former high school classmate who, while he was technically your "friend," the relationship was more or less a smoking partnership... a chance to play hooky, than any real, true friendship.
**************************
Skip ahead ten minutes and we're back in Brighton, Massachusetts. Therron, whipping the car down the road, attempts to jolt a sleeping Tony awake with a quick jolt from side-to-side, but to no avail. Reaching Tony's apartment... well, reaching what he thought was Tony's apartment, he SLAMS on the brakes, and Tony's body is catapulted in to the back of the passenger's seat.
Surprisingly, going nose first in to a solid seating contraption, thanks to the wonders of inertia, is a bit uncomfortable. Instead of falling backwards, a drunken and defeated Santos crumbles sideways, falling to his left and hitting the car floor.
Therron: Well, this has been fun, Sully, but it's time for both of us to head home. This is your stop!
Tony crawls to the rear driver's side door, lifts a weak arm, and manages to pull just enough at the handle for an almost silent *click* to be heard, the door slightly opening. Tony pushes the door open, then, to his surprise, he slides out of the back seat, awkwardly pressing his face against the concrete, the rest of his body weight pushing down on his head. Sure, he had an oversized head, but only figuratively. That was only thanks to his excessively large ego, rather than any physical power that his head contained. Tony flops out of the car, does a butt slide to the curb, and closes the back door with his foot. Just as Therron can be heard switching gears, Tony speaks...
Santos: Wait... wait!
Tony gets to his knees, grabs the rearview mirror (you know, the one that didn't assault a human being), and pulls himself up to his feet. Therron looks at Tony, as Tony extends his hand for a handshake. Therron, appreciating this bit of humanity, smiles and places his right hand out for Tony. Tony smiles and...
Smacks Therron across his left cheek before drunkenly sprinting for his apartment door.
Therron: You can go to hell, Sullivan!...
Therron says as he speeds off.
Tony, making his way to his little stoop in Brighton, sprints up the stairs. Missing a step, Tony slams his shin against the hard, wooden step.
Santos: Fuck!
Not deterred from his quest for his comfortable, albeit booze-infested, bed, Tony quickly lips himself up and makes his way for the door. After fumbling with his keys for what feels like an eternity (but is only about 15 seconds), Tony lifts the key to the lock, when he notices a sign. A sign which just states, in capital letters, "EVICTED."
Stunned, Tony nonetheless attempts to get in to his apartment. Sleep is the primary goal here. He'd worry about a landlord quarrel in the morning. Sliding the key in the lock, Tony finds that he, well, can't turn it. At all.
Santos: You son of a bitch!
He yells this just loud enough to ensure that his landlord, who lives in the duplex next door, can hear him.
Tony slams his keys on the ground, yanks his phone from his left pocket, and calls Shannon...
He stops, as he notices a voicemail from Shannon an hour earlier...
Shannon: Tone! I hope you get this soon. Maximo...
His landlord was an Italian named Maximo, but that's neither here nor there.
Shannon: ...has been trying to get in touch with you. Apparently you haven't paid your rent in six months, so he, well, kicked you out. But don't worry! I have all of your things packed up in a U-Haul outside of my apartment.
Oh! And I have a backup plan, and a rather good one! Tone, I'm moving out of my place tomorrow morning and we're moving to... Miami! Please catch a cab over to my apartment as soon as you get this so we can be ready to leave ASAP tomorrow!
Miami, Tony! We're moving to paradise!
Tony, mouth agape, moves the phone from his ear and just lets it fall from his grasp. Stumbling to the white, wooden rail on his porch, he lets his arms rest weakly as he took in what had just occurred over a span of two minutes. Tony, head down, hair dangling toward the ground, lets himself breathe for a minute or two. Heavy, but increasingly calm, breaths, as he tries to not go on a murderous, drunken rampage through the neighborhood that was no longer his.
Tony lifts his head, brushes his hair back, and stares blankly ahead.
Santos: Miami? I'm moving to a god damn Latino cesspool. Fuck.
As the camera pans away, a song can be heard in the background before the scene fades to black.