Free How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater by Marc Acito Page A

sitting in it. “Look,” I say, “there's no room for me, and you need me to buy the beer.”
    Duncan smiles. “We'll just take a little ride then, and come back and get ya'.” He revs the engine and puts the car in first, but before he can take off I grab hold of the side and hop up on the trunk, shoving my legs next to Boonbrain's refrigerator-sized frame. I must look like the Catholic grand marshal of a St. Patrick's Day parade.
    “Go Blue Devils!” Duncan screams, such a dumb jock thing to say, and he floors it.
    Asshole.
    Sociopath that he is, Duncan does everything he can to send me flying off the back, deliberately making sharp turns and sudden stops. It's not quite as malicious as it sounds—I guess for someone who engages in a sport that involves knocking the crap out of people, vehicular homicide is just good, clean fun. Luckily, all those dance classes really
have
been good for something, because I manage to keep my balance the entire way. Once we stop, however, I fumble the dismount as I attempt to hop out in the suave, easy manner of Magnum, P.I., and end up flat on my ass in the liquor store parking lot. Everyone laughs—not in a mean way, but in a way that shows they appreciate the irony of someone being capable of holding on to a sports car going seventy miles an hour down unimproved roads but failing to stay upright once it's safely parked.
    Lightning shoots up my spine but I make faces at the guys like I'm only pretending to be in pain. I hobble into the liquor store, hoping that a limp will contribute to an overall image of maturity.
    A big heavyset guy who looks like a Hell's Angel appears behind the counter. “Hey, Fawther,” he says, “how can I help yuz?”
    I say a silent prayer to St. Genesius, the patron saint of actors or, in this case, bold-faced liars, but the guy seems more focused on the clerical collar than the person wearing it. I lean across the counter like I don't want to be overheard. “Sister Paula from the Convent of the Bleeding Heart suggested I buy beer here,” I say in a breathy, Father Mulcahy from
M*A*S*H
kind of voice. “Do you know what brand she normally gets?”
    “Oh, sure, Fawther,” Hell's Angel says with a conspiratorial nod. “We all know how Father Monty likes his beer.” Father Monty is the old souse of a priest Paula invented as the reason why a nun would need to buy a case of cheap beer every weekend.
    “I'm Father Roovy, by the way,” I say. “Greg Roovy. I'm new.”
    “Nice to meetcha, Fawther. Where's Sister Paula tonight?”
    “She's, uh, been transferred into Manhattan.”
    Hell's Angel gives me a look like someone just ran over his puppy. “She didn't even say goodbye,” he says.
    “It was very sudden,” I explain. “That's why they brought me on to assist Father Monty—we're very shorthanded now.”
    Hell's Angel plops a couple of cases of beer on the counter. “Well, God bless her,” he says.
    “Yes, God bless her,” I say as beatifically as I can.
    He takes my money, but hesitates. “Y'know, Fawther,” he says, “whenever Sister Paula came in, it was kind of like she brought the church with her, you know what I mean?”
    “We're here to serve,” I say. What the hell is going on?
    Hell's Angel leans his elbows on the counter and says to me in a soft voice, “It's been kind of a tough week . . .”
    Twenty minutes later I finally emerge from the liquor store. “What took you so long?” Duncan asks.
    “Who knew I was going to have to hear confession?” I say.
    (Later on when I ask Paula about it, she just says, “Now you be nice to poor Larry. His mother has been very sick and he's under a lot of stress right now.” Such a Paula thing to say.)
    My tailbone is really throbbing now and I'm in no mood for fucking around, so I hold the beer ransom until Duncan agrees to get on the back and be the grand marshal. I just want to get my father's penis home in one piece.
    Then I get behind the wheel.
    I don't know what comes