LA

Before The Party

23 years from now.

    The thought of getting up earlier was in my head. However, being a seventeen-year-old boy seems to automatically throw that option out the imaginary window. Speaking of which, why is this "window" only mentioned when something is being thrown out of it? Why are there no metaphors referring to someone "sneaking out of" this metaphoric window? I think I could make that a trend. Anyway, I did not wake up naturally, I was awoken by Sam, as he decided to shake me out of my wonderful dream state. He woke me up like I was his father, and he was five, and it was Christmas morning.

    "Hurry up, Tim! We're going to miss our flight!" He said as I began to come to. Then I remembered, the flight. We were going to be late. I got up with a burst of energy and got changed. Sam was already wearing a shirt he got from Hot Topic, skinny jeans, and an Invader Zim hat he always placed on top of his short bright red hair. While I was going through my suitcase checklist, Sam kept mentioning how he might get a new piercing while we were in Los Angeles, from one of those fancy famous LA piercers. He already has spider bites in the right side of his lip, even though he was upset to find out his nose can't sustain a septum piercing. While I am not one to get piercings, all I really have that I can show off is a Pisces tattoo on my left bicep with two koi fish, one is orange [to represent the first sunrise of the Pisces season] and the other is blue [to represent the last night of the Pisces season].

    Sam then helped me with the checklist, he was much faster than me. If I had forgotten something, I would go get it, while he would continue going down the list. It was times like these, when I was glad to have Sam as a friend. I would probably go insane without him there. I zip up my suitcase and my carry-on, and then set them down by the front door. Sam already had his bags packed and laying by the door, as if he had put them there days in advance, which wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. I came back into my room to see Sam sitting on my bed, writing in his journal. He doesn't mind if I read his journal, because it's mostly daily entries, and his original poetry.

    "What are you writing?' I ask.

    "Poetry".

    I told you he writes poetry.

    "I always love your poetry".

    Even though this made Sam happy by hearing this, his poems are a little dark for my taste. He has a way where he can make you terrified of the most normal thing you can think of. His way with words is astonishing. If Sam wrote a poem about the meat packing industry, I would probably be a vegetarian right now, even Upton Sinclair would be impressed. I look at my watch, 1:35. It was time to head to the airport.

    We load everything into Sam's Altima, and get in the car. The leather made a squish as we got in, since Sam decided to save money by not purchasing a covered parking spot. I try to tell him that it was a stupid idea, especially during another stereotypical 'West Texas Hot-As-Hell Summer', but he just reminds me that he has the money, and therefore he can do whatever he wants with it. Then that would be the end of the conversation.

    I risk getting third degree burns as I buckle my seatbelt and try to hold my head away from the now three-hundred-degree headrest. Sam turns the key in the ignition.

    The car starts.

    The AC kicks in.

    I quickly turn the fans toward my face, and I find myself stuck with an expression that resembles someone experiencing their first orgasm. I snap out of my trance as I hear Sam cuss under his breath.

    "Fuck! This steering wheel is burning!" He says as he tries to grab the wheel with just his index finger and thumb. The sun is beating down, causing Sam's hair to resemble a river of molten lava, fading from red to orange, and finally to black towards the scalp. We pull out of the parking lot, and then hit the road.