Bitter Fitter Beer Muscles

His talk about Going Big
never happened.
We just sat there after work
drinking beer for the second time that day
and he only paid for the first round.

So I made sure to leave
the bar while he still had half a pint
still had some other sap
to sop up his war stories.
I was tired of nodding my head
and acting like I hadn't heard them already.
He hesitated to shake my hand
like it was funny.
I stormed out
muttering to myself
something about the money
not being worth the hoax.
It was starting to become
a weekly soul-selling session
and I'm not one for playing the fool
for a wad of bills.

Part of me wanted
to write something witty
in the layer of salt
on his truck--
"Thanks" or something
more direct than sarcastic.
He'd made a fool of me
and a liar of himself
and the others would never
let either of us live it down.
My better judgment kicked in
and I didn't bother.
My better judgment kicked in
and I fixed my doubled eyes
on the tail-lights in front of me.
My better judgment called in sick again.

The one I left him there with
gave me a ring on my way home.
"I'm disgusted" were my first words
but he didn't get it
didn't get that we'd been duped again
for a lousy buck-twenty-a-day.
I let him ramble on for fifteen minutes
as I tried to ignore my bladder.
"My wife called and I excused myself
from the conversation," he said.
"When I came back he was gone."
Typical. A coward's way out.
"Listen, man, I have to go.
My back teeth are floating."
I pulled into the parking lot
of the first fast food joint I saw
and walked straight in
to the men's room to relieve myself.
It felt damn good, it was hard to stop.
I was in my glory for the better part of
one straight minute
and it didn't cost me a dime.

After washing my hands
I got in line and ordered a cheeseburger.
It took longer than it should have
and the kid gave me the wrong change
but I didn't mention it for fear that he'd smell
it on my breath.
Failure, that is.
I walked out to my truck
and noticed that someone
had parked next to me
while I was inside.
The logo of my former employer
of two-and-a-half years
jumped out at me from the passenger door.
I looked through the large window
of the restaurant, but didn't see anyone
worth threatening; he must've ran
to the bathroom to take a Happy Hour leak
as well.

No one in a position to pay me
could be trusted: not past, not future
not ever.

Caveat emptor. Et tu, Brute?

"Screws in the treads," I said to myself
as I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later.
"I should've put screws in the treads."