“Jesus,” I say, “Christ.” This is the kind of hangover people write horror movies about, movies that are never funded because they’re too graphic. If you don’t know what a hangover feels like, congrats. You are smarter than I am. It’s like a sledgehammer eloped with a swing set and they honeymooned in your head. I lift my foot to turn the water on with my toe, and after it cools down a bit, I let it drench my legs. That’s when I notice I’m still in my one good pair of underwear, and just that. “Um . . . Amir?” I call out, louder than a smart kid would. These walls are so thin. Mom can probably hear every last detail of my life. Nothing. Okay, so he’s not here. Oh my God, thank God. When my legs have been chilled enough so that I guess they start circulating the blood back up in a way that’s vaguely “refreshing,” I see the pile of last night’s cologned clothes, sitting next to the commode. Something is sticking out of the pocket of my jean shorts, which are hanging off the toilet plunger.
What do You think about The Great American Whatever?
