Whenever Zach was troubled or upset, he would queue up a video of a Phish show on YouTube, and watch ecstatically as the band jammed aimlessly while the audience--always the same bunch of baby-faced, yuppie white people—threw around beach balls and danced. I usually didn't mind how pathetic he was, but I always wished he would find some better music to listen to. I tried covering my ears, but it was no use. I groaned. Maybe I could just meet Alyssa in town instead. After a moment of hesitation, I grabbed the keys to one of the black Chevy Tahoes in the garage and drove into town. I could meet Alyssa at a coffee shop or something, and Zach could deal with the car later. Negotiating with Zach when he was deep in his 5-year-old-whiny-little-shit state was just too much. As soon as I got to the coffee shop, retrieved my drink and sat down, my phone buzzed with a message from Zach. My dad's pissed. About the wine and the car. Try to get back ASAP. ‘Fat chance,’ I thought.
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