Writing from prompts

Here's something I came up with from the first week of class. We had four objects for inspiration: a Darth Vader mask, empty pack of cigarettes, toy soldier in jeep, empty film canister. I started writing this after class, I think. It doesn't fit thematically with the class, so I thought I'd post it here. Normally I'd be embarrassed, but I realize that all seven people who read this blog from time to time really don't care what I post. I think the punctuation is pretty fucked up and I bet I made at least one mistake with the tense.

Ryan just got back from Iraq. He is downtown at 2 a.m., walking down St. Germain street. He's been partying and hanging out with his buddies all weekend. St. Germain at bar close is a zoo, just like he remembers. Cops walking around, girls screaming and giggling, everybody making their next plans. Ryan thinks about the film he packed in his suitcase. He wonders if the film was ruined when the luggage was x-rayed at the airport. He hopes it was.

Last night, the guys stayed up all night watching the original Star Wars trilogy. Actually Ryan was the only one who made it through the whole night awake, but it didn't matter. They trudged to Perkins for breakfast at 7 then crashed in Toby's living room for a couple of hours.

Ryan lists the bars they hit last night, goes through them chronologically. The Carpet, the Press, MC's, DB's, McRudy's, the Press again so Jake could check if that hot girl was still there. No dice.

Ryan sleeps with a gun under his bed now. He couldn't do that at Toby's, he had to settle for knowing that it was locked in his glove box, and he checked on it a couple of times during the night. He told the guys he was outside smoking, which he was, but he also needed to check on the gun. The first few days after coming home he kept it under his pillow, but his wife talked him out of it. First he moved it to the bedside table then under the bed in a small box. Compromise is the key to a successful marriage, he thinks, as he walks with his friends.

Buddy turns his head, looks at Ryan with a raised eyebrow. Ryan realized he had muttered the words out loud and he laughed his new laugh -- the harsh mirthless laugh his mom hated.

"Any more beer at your house?" Ryan asks Toby.
"Yeah, I think so. Dunno. I guess the liquor store is closed, huh?"

Toby was a dumb drunk. Some of Ryan's friends get mean, angry, sad, hilarious or extra horny when they drank. Toby tends to get stupid. Lock his keys in the trunk of the car, call ex-girlfriends, wander away so Jake or Buddy or somebody who gives a shit has to track him down.

Four girls - no, five, there's always a plain one in the back, hiding -- giggling as one, eyeball the guys. They are walking across the street from the men, at the same pace, as though it was on purpose. The second prettiest yells an invitation to an after-bar party eight blocks away.

Steve says "Fuck that," in a voice that only his buddies could hear, and "Sorry, ladies, maybe next time," in his loud clear voice.

Steve pulls out his keys and jingles them in Buddy's face. Buddy bats his hand away. Steve volunteered to be sober cab, and he did pretty good, only drinking three beers and two shots. They are a block from the car now. They pass Mexican Village. Toby starts belting out the old ad jingle for another Mexican restaurant he knows from his hometown. "Chips are free, dinner extra. Chips are free, dinner extra!" The guys laugh. Ryan sees one of the girls across the street wrinkle up her nose.

They reach the car. The guys climb in. Ryan knows Shelly thought he would be home tonight. She is going to shit a brick when I get home tomorrow, red eyed and sullen, he thinks. He laughs again and lights his last Marlboro. The boys climb into the car and are silent.