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{contains language some may find offensive}

“I’d kill that lady over there for some pancakes,” I said, gesturing with my chin at a defeated looking woman in a red velour sweatsuit, a neon rainbow of curlers wound tightly into her sparse black hair. I tapped an unlit cigarette on the table top.

“Well, that might feel good in the moment,” she said. “But those cops over there would probably have to shoot you, and then you’d still be pancakeless.”

She smiled as she said this, revealing that dimple on her left cheek. I fought the urge to lean across the table and lick it.

“Are you hurting as much as I am?” she asked, sipping from her water glass.

I didn’t answer. I was trying in vain to catch the waitress’ eye from across a very crowded Golden Apple Restaurant. Located on Chicago’s North Side, The Golden Shower (our preferred name for our hangover hangout) was both bland and affordable enough to please everyone, from cops to seniors on fixed incomes to college students like us.

I stared at the bottom of my now-empty coffee cup and thought about vaulting over the counter to pour a fresh one myself. But that sounded like too much work, since even the hum of everyday noises in the restaurant hurt my eyes. A baby screeched and I swear I felt it scrape along the inside of my skull.

“I remember a pitcher of . . . something. And several straws,” she said. “After that, not much. And stop that tapping or I’ll hire that lady over there to kill you. And then I’ll eat your pancakes.”

I thought I saw the waitress headed our way and waved my empty coffee mug at her as she headed in another direction.

“You’re assuming pancakes are imminent,” I said.

“I think waving your mug at her will make her ignore you, not hurry over here,” she said, sipping her water again.

“Whatever,” I said. “Hey, did Wedge get naked this year?” I asked, laughing.

It even hurt to laugh. But the image of our friend–whose given name really was Wedge–and his barrel-shaped, hirsute body was worth it. The best part was the way he ran; high-stepping in fast motion, his Sumo grade thighs pumping up and down as we all desperately avoided glimpsing his junk.

“Oh God yeah, he was!” she said, her eyes widening. “That stupid hairy motherfucker even ran outside after midnight!”

We both started laughing, and I think I even snorted. A woman, her white hair set in tight curls like a swim cap, turned to glare at us.

This only made us laugh harder. We sat there, eventually shaking with silent laughter, grimacing from the pain of yet another New Year’s Eve hangover.

“I last saw him passed out lying across the sink with his legs on the toilet tank. How’d he manage to get up there?” she asked, still giggling.

“One can never know the mysterious ways of a Wedge,” I said.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. “Did you really call that lady in the fur coat a–a cunt on the walk home?”

Swim Cap Hair turned to stare at us again, her mouth slightly open. If there was a spot on her that wasn’t covered in wrinkles, I didn’t want to know about it.

“Possibly,” I said dryly, avoiding the old woman’s glare. I started tapping the cigarette on the tabletop again.

“You tool,” she said. “You were wearing a leather biker jacket. It’s not like you’re any less cruel to animals.”

“Yeah, but at least my jacket isn’t a status symbol,” I said, feeling my cheeks starting to burn.

“Oh come on,” she said. “If anything, it’s even more of a status symbol. ‘Look at me, all edgy in my Leathermakers coat my mom scored for me at the mall!’” she said.

“Hey! I paid for this myself!” I said.

“So,” I asked quietly. “Do you remember anything else from last night?”

“Yeah, I remember,” she said. The dimple was back.

“Okay, what can I get youse kids?” said the waitress in a voice so loud we both jumped. She flipped to a new sheet on her notepad and looked at us blandly.

Now she shows, I thought.

“Pancakes,” we said in unison. This time I know I snorted when I laughed.

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