"Twenty-three dollars," he's saying. "Twenty-three dollars for the best dream of your life."
You don't know his name or anything -- he's just the guy you always meet at parties thrown by people you've never met. He's nobody's friend, exactly, but everyone knows who he is when it's time. Probably doesn't even have a name, probably has bagged groceries at some godforsaken Shopper's Food Warehouse since high school, but who cares? He's here to help you in your hour of need.
"What do you say?" he asks, holding up a repurposed cough syrup bottle with something green inside. Green like candy almost never is.
Sure, you're used to piece-of-shit architecture (you live in Dundalk, for crissake), but this place will be receiving some kind of award from you by the end of the night. There's totally unimportant crap strewn all over the place -- old sewing machines, an Easy-Bake oven, even a set of folding chairs painted carnival blue -- but fortunately, almost all of it is in shadow thanks to an underperforming fifty-watt bulb directly above.
It's just you and the dude here. The only place in the entire house you could get any privacy. It's only ten o'clock and already the call to hook up has come down from the heavens.
Stairs lead downward, back to the party and that awful trance-bop they keep playing.
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