Expensive

Grant LaRue did not like his job. He did not like his courses. The time and mental effort he invested in avoiding work of any breed was generally more than it would have required to do the work outright. All of which explains why on this cold Saturday night, instead of finalizing, editing, writing, drafting, outlining or even thinking about his numerous overdue papers, Grant was driving back to his apartment on campus - the seat beside him occupied by a sizzling hot companion, topped with pepperoni, green peppers and pineapple - with the intention of drinking himself into a stupor.

He eased off the accelerator and relaxed his back into the leather upholstery, a succession of small groans emanating from both as they acknowledged each other's presence. The heating vents breathed the aroma escaping from the pizza box and redistributed it until the entire vehicle took on a tinge of edibility, becoming panels of dough and seats of cheese. With measured nonchalance in a quick flick of the wrist, he slipped the unlit cigarette behind his ear.

He cracked the window to hear the low roar of the wind, like waves constantly crashing into the side of a cliff, crowding all else out of his mind, washing it clean. The hand running through his perfect sandy curls moved to one of the chrome knobs on the stereo panel. A reverberating reggae tune, something generic about freedom and love, blasted from the six speakers. Maybe about hardship, too - Grant could never parse the Caribbean lyrics. That's what he needed; a beach, his very warm, very wet, very willing girlfriend lying on top of him, blocking the sun, and a bottle of Jamaican rum. And a case of Red Stripe beer.

The steering wheel obligingly twisted under his command, guiding the black metal off the main road and into a residential community. Every tree-lined street and neat clapboard two-story housed college students, some of whom spilled outside their domestic confines in twos or threes. Grant swept down the road. He could pull over and join any of these low-profile rituals. But he preferred to vomit in his own toilet, thank you very much.

A cop car cruised by in the opposite direction, but Grant had his eyes closed and didn't notice. The song ended and was replaced by the same song again, only faster. He eased up an inclined driveway that curved behind a patch of evergreens and parked, yanking the microphone from the reggae deejay. A brief moment of silence, then the rustlings and whisperings of the night faded back in. The door opened, and his Converse sneakers padded around to the back. Pneumatic hinges on the trunk engaged to reveal a three-dimensional matrix of alcoholic beverages. Grant couldn't help but smile. He reached his fingers around the first stack and heaved.

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