Jay Cutler was visibly frustrated. “No, no, no. That’s not right.” A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth as he spoke. “I asked for twenty and you gave me two hundred and six.” He waved the un-wadded cash in Johnny Manziel’s face. Manziel squinted at the bills in Cutler’s hand, swaying back and forth. Slowly, he raised one hand and began doing his money celebration, rubbing his fingers together inches from Cutler’s exasperated glare. “Jesus Christ,” Cutler whispered under his breath. He flicked his cigarette and turned back to the Dominos delivery guy, “Can I just put this on my card instead?”
As he signed the receipt, a loud crash came from inside. Johnny darted off the front porch back through the wide open door, spilling his 40 of Bud Ice everywhere in the process. “GOD DAMMIT!” Cutler exclaimed, snatching the pizza box. He turned to follow Manziel back inside. As the Dominos guy went to pick up the pen that Cutler had angrily tossed into the yard, he checked the receipt. “No tip?” he asked, meekly. Cutler, who was already walking away, paused to look over his shoulder. “Fuck you.” He slammed the door behind him.
“Man, listen. I just needed more wax.” J.R. Smith was sitting on the floor, covered in bits of drywall and dust. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. There was a surfboard stuck in the wall near the base of the stairs. The hardwood stairs were scratched from Smith’s apparent attempt to surf down them, and several spindles had been knocked out of the staircase in the process. Manziel had picked up one of the spindles and was waving it around, making light saber sounds. Cutler closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “I just got it fixed from last time,” he said through his teeth. Smith shrugged. He reached for the almost-empty bottle of Hennessy at his feet, unscrewed the cap, and gulped down the rest.
Manziel dramatically tip-toed over to where Cutler was standing and pointed the broken spindle at Cutler’s chest. “Give me a slice, you will.” J.R. Smith stood up, flicking pieces of drywall off his bare skin. “That’s Yoda, dumbass. You clearly tryna be Luke Skyswalker.” Smith suddenly stopped laughing. Still holding the bottle of Hennessy, he stepped back and launched the bottle at the trash can across the room. The bottle, which seemed to stay in the air forever, landed perfectly in the can as if guided by some unknown force. As Smith ran around the room celebrating in front of an invisible crowd, Cutler opened the pizza box to let a ravenous Johnny Manziel get a piece. He snatched a slice immediately and plopped down on the couch to answer a FaceTime call from Drake.
Cutler set down the box and started towards the kitchen, leaving Smith to clean up the mess he made. He checked his iPhone. Two new text messages. The first was from Kyle Orton, which he deleted immediately without reading. The other was from his wife, Kristin. She was visiting her mother’s house and had their three sons with her. “How is everything at the house?” she had asked. Cutler typed out a response. “Fine. How is my dumb bitch of a mother-in-law?” He deleted everything except for the first word and hit send.
Manziel peeked into the kitchen, where Cutler was now using the gas stove to light a cigarette. “Can Drake come over?” he asked, hopefully. “Ooooooh tell Aubrey to come get this work in 2k!” Smith shouted from the living room, where he was now playing PS4. Cutler took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at the clock on the microwave. 1:46 AM. He looked back at Johnny, who stood there like a child begging his father for the newest set of Legos in the toy store. “No.” he replied firmly, reaching up into the cabinet for another pack of cigarettes and tossing the empty ones to the kitchen floor. “Please?” Manziel asked again, desperately. Cutler paused, looking down at the two dozen empty Marlboro cartons at his feet. He sighed and looked up to meet Manziel’s bloodshot gaze. “Whatever. Just make sure he brings some fucking cigarettes.”
— to be continued
