Jerry

So I’m sitting at a swim-up bar in this opulent all-inclusive in Cancun. I’ve already had four margaritas and two daiquiris (one strawberry, one classic). I’m smoking a Marlboro Light and wondering when the best time is to book the pillow menu sample.

Pillow menu?

Yeah, it’s where the resort staff bring a bunch of pillows up to your room and you select the type you like best. Visconube, Vicrofresh, Micro-Duvet. There’s quite a selection. Oh for the old days when a pillow was just a fucking pillow.

 

Swim-up bar sounds like a great idea, right? But then I look around and realise Dave the Canadian has been in the same spot for hours. And that’s when it hits me that a pool with a swim-up bar is most likely 70% piss.

 

There’s a quiz in the pool. I’ve tried a bunch of different tequilas, so I think it’s a good idea to join in. The aim of the quiz is to guess the song from the first 10 seconds of a piece of music. I know my music, so I’m pretty good at this (although not as good as I should be on account of the fact I’m fucking wasted).

 

But there’s always someone who takes these things too seriously. And today it’s Jerry. Jerry has a goatee and man-tits. He’s picking people up for slight grammatical errors when naming the songs (Riders in the  Storm as opposed to Riders on the Storm etc.)

I don’t like this, so I start on Jerry because I think Jerry’s a fucking asshole who isn’t embracing the holiday spirit.

‘Never listen to a man with a goatee,’ I heckle.

Jerry ignores me.

‘I’m pretty sure Jerry voted Trump.’

Jerry ignores me.

There are a bunch of awkward snickers, although I’m guessing 50% of the people around me voted Trump, so perhaps my insult isn’t quite as cutting as I intend it to be.

 

The quiz ends. I stagger back to the room and vomit.

 

I can never drink tequila again.

 

The next day I have the hangover from hell (‘Hell’, it transpires is a word that some people in the resort consider profane. Probably a good job I didn’t furnish them with a copy of Dot Matrix).

I’m having dinner with some Texans.

 

But Jerry still hates me. He glances at me over the top of seared tuna and avocado salad. I smile back, but it’s one of those smiles that means fuck you rather than hello.

 

Jerry moves out from behind his table, wheelchair and all.

Anyway, have y’all read Property yet? It’s pretty good.

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