“Growing up, I wasn’t much into the whole ‘school thing.’”
The corner of Byron and Clark. Johnny turns down the street, munching on some popcorn, on his way to Toons Bar and Grill to meet up with some of his boys for Thirsty Thursday.
Their wings are fuckin’ delicious, bee tee dubs.
DORN: Oh, I know what you’re thinking. BIG SHOCK, right? Your boy Johnny Dorn hasn’t exactly portrayed himself as havin’ exceptional intelligence, so of course he’s no Rhodes Scholar. He’s no Ivy League grad. He’s no MENSA member.
He must’ve been too concerned with sports, and bein’ popular, to give too much of a shit about things called grades. And you’d be right. Yeah, there’s the Johnny Dorn you all were expectin’. A “C” average kept me on the team, and hey, so long as I got that, I was happy. My parents weren’t thrilled but at least I didn’t flunk out or fail a test. And sure, maybe I could’ve applied myself a lil’ more, hit the books a lil’ harder. Maybe do the whole “college” thing like my parents wanted. But school was boring. School was a chore. I had to go and so I did, but it really wasn’t for me.
I knew I wanted to do somethin’ else with my life; I just had to make it outta there.
And hey…school’s not for everyone.
Some things in life aren’t for everyone. You hear the stories all the time. People think they’ve found their dream job, only to find out their boss is a nightmare, or the workload doesn’t match the job description, or they get a couple years in and hate it so much they quit and go do something else.
Marriages crumble, families split.
Bad shit happens to good people.
Bad shit also happens to bad people, Devin. Sorry to disappoint, bro, but I wasn’t gettin’ philosophical on you. All that was the warm-up, the prelude to the punchline, the build-up to the climax. I’ve said it a bunch of different ways, a bunch of different times, and it all boils down to the same, simple point.
You are bad, and you should feel bad.
You are fuckin’ incapable of doin’ better, too. If I made a drinkin’ game based on how many times you said the word great, or pretty, or pretty boy, or sweet, or that you were a model, or that I’d lose to a model, or that you were great … well, EYE wouldn’t be drunk, but I bet you Scottywood would be. For sure John Sektor. Conor Fuse would be dead, and I would envy him, because that would be better than listening to one more word come out of your mouth.
Dorn quick-flashes to himself inside an energy drink shaped coffin. A big, no longer envious smile covers his tanned face, a bottle cap rests over each of his eyes, and a fifth for every day of the week with a coinciding BANG to match lays next to him.
DORN: I know I ripped you to shreds for having multiple streams of income, but you should look on the bright side: once you realize after Saturday that coming to HOW was a bad bet, and you get your skin sewn back together, you’ll be able to return to your one true calling: modeling the latest and greatest medical gear for Uniform Advantage. You don’t have to talk, or think too hard, which everybody will be thankful for. Nobody’ll see all the scars you’ll carry for the rest of your life.
You’ll be just another dumb body, gettin’ their mug shot, while I’ll be havin’ my name in flashin’ lights as part of the Denucci Cup’s Elite Eight.
And that’s another hard lesson that you’re gonna have to learn, buddy.
For as “pretty” as you claim to be, Devin….GOD don’t like ugly.
And you’ve brought nothin’ but ugly to the table ever since you walked in the door.