The Concrete Pearl
“What dumb ass switched the ringer from vibrate to the loudest ring-tone possible? Would that dumb ass be me?Motherfucker…This had better be good!I rolled over. It hurt to move. Hurt to breathe.Through burning eyeballs I glanced at the clock radio. Same clock radio I’ve had since college when I didn’t get hangovers even after drinking and smoking all day and night.7:30 in back-lit, white-on-black letters.I shed the covers, pulled myself up, swung my legs around, planted bare feet on a cold hardwood floor. A quick look in the mirror across from me revealed a hard-headed monster with a sagging face veiled by a nest of black hair. My throat was on fire; my chest filled with enough tar to pave over a Wal-Mart parking lot.What kind of idiot starts smoking again after two years quit?That idiot would most definitely be me…I got up, made the trek through the bedroom to the living room, plucked the Blackberry off the charger and thumbed Send.“Yeah.”“Turn on Channel 13,” Tommy ordered.
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