1
Mason
Have you ever noticed how versatile the word “fuck” is?
I know, random question, but stick with me. I have a point.
As a noun, verb, or adjective, “fuck” really can’t be beat. I use it constantly in all its forms.
For example, right now I’m staring at the naked blonde snoring softly in my bed and I’m thinking This is fucked. Why the fuck did I take her home from the bar last night? I am a fucking moron. FUCK.
That last one’s probably my favorite.
Just the word all by itself.
In capitals.
Like that, it can mean “wow.” Or “life sucks.” Or “how did I get mustard on my shirt?” Or even “we’re all gonna die!”
Or, in this particular case “why do I keep making the same mistake over and over again?”
My therapist has a theory, but I don’t wanna talk about it.
“Mason! Maaasooonnn! Where are you? We’re late as fuck!”
That Brooklyn-accented voice shouting at me from downstairs reminds me there’s another great use of the word—as a unit of measure.
“As fuck.” A “fuckload.” A “fuckton,” which is heavier than a load but different than a “fuckwad,” which when used as a noun is a unit of measure, but is better used as an adjective to refer to a person you can’t stand.
Like Tom Brady for instance. Yeah, the famous QB of the Patriots.
Don’t even get me started on Mr. Perfect.
Blech.
Sometimes my mind gets the best of me and fixates on how many shitloads are in a fuckton, but these are the kind of things my therapist sighs quietly at when I mention and looks down at her hands like she’s lost all hope of being useful to society, so I’ve never gotten a solid answer to that.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. The blonde.
“Mason! MASON! JesusChristonacrutch, let’s go!”
The guy about to have a stroke downstairs is Dick, my agent. You’d think he’d show me some respect, considering the amount of money I make him, but nah. He treats me like family.
I mean, not close family. Not like I’m his son or whatever, but maybe like…a stepson?
Yeah, like a stepson.
Like, he kinda likes me? Because he has to? If I’m behaving? If my mom’s in the room and he’s pretending to be all kissy-kissy-we’re-just-one-big-happy-blended-family until she leaves and he can let his toupee down and collapse onto the couch and yell at me to get him a beer?
Like that.
Like…well, like everyone else treats me, I guess. With kid gloves.
Like, “Holy cow, who brought the Yeti to the party? Hahaha, is the Sasquatch house trained? Joking! Of course we’re joking, hahaha!” Stage whisper: “No, seriously—is it house trained? Because we just had the carpet cleaned and it looks like it could really use a potty mat.”
Spoiler alert: I’m not known for my social graces.
“I’m coming!” I holler, making the naked blonde on my bed jerk and snort.
But she doesn’t wake up. She just burrows down into my fucking (adjective) sheets and does fuck all (noun), so I leave her to sleep off the fuckload (unit of measure) of booze we drank last night before we came back here and fucked (verb, past tense ) like rabbits.
Can you see why I’m always so crabby?
Being me is exhausting.
“This is a bullshit idea.”
“You got a better one?”
“Yeah. Let’s stop at that bar on the corner. Get some drinks.”
Exasperated sigh. “Mace, it’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Exactly. I need a Bloody Mary.” I stare gloomily out the passenger window at the Irish pub we’re passing on our way to the meeting with the matchmaker.
The fucking matchmaker. For the love of all that’s holy.
Dick is driving my car. It’s a brand new Mercedes-Benz Maybach. I hate it with the burning heat of a thousand suns. It’s too cushy. Safe.
Makes me feel old.
I shoulda bought that vintage Shelby Cobra Super Snake with the 800-horsepower engine I wanted, but Dick screamed about how I’d kill myself in it, blah, blah, so here we are.
That I hate the car isn’t why Dick’s driving me. He drives me around a lot, because my license is suspended. Two dozen tickets in ten months and the DMV gets pissy.
Also, it’s his way of keeping an eye on me. If I get into any more trouble, my ass is grass and I can kiss all my sweet endorsement deals goodbye.
And I do not want to kiss them goodbye. Other people might measure happiness by how many friends they have (spoiler: I don’t have any) or how close they are with their family (spoiler: don’t have any of those, either) or whatever other sappy shit makes them feel good, but for me there’s only one measure of success, and that’s money.
Which (how many spoilers are we on now?) I’ve got a lot of.
A shitload, you could say.
Or a fuckton.
Either way, you’d be right.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: I’m a shallow asshole. Better shallow than poor.
I’ve been poor—the poorest kind of poor, where you have to go to the gas station down the street and stuff your pockets with toilet paper to bring home because there’s none in the house and the only cheese you’ve ever eaten is the government kind that comes in a box and when the power gets shut off you just go without lights and heat and a stove to cook on, because there’s no money to pay the bill.
Poor means having to do things to survive.
Humiliating things.
Illegal things, sometimes.
Things that go against your nature or your morals, but it’s not like you have a choice. You’re powerless. Especially when you’re a poor kid, because then you’re also invisible.
And being invisible is even worse than being poor.
You might as well be dead when you’re invisible.
“You don’t need a Bloody Mary,” Dick says with irritation. “What you need is a woman to look after you.”
I smirk, thinking of the busty blonde I called a cab for before we left. “Got plenty of those.”
“Don’t be a dipshit. You know what I mean. And let me do the talking when we get there!”
“Stop shouting. You’re making my headache worse.”
Dick ignores me and keeps right on shouting. “And would it have killed you to run a comb through your hair? You look like you slept in the woods!”
“Good point. Let’s stop at Supercuts.”
Dick heaves a big, dramatic sigh. “You have to start taking this seriously, Mace. Your entire future depends on you getting your shit together.”
He’s right. I know he’s right, but it still pisses me off that he’s lecturing me.
Besides, it’s not like I’ve got a future, anyway. This football thing will be like everything else in my life: temporary.
Nothing good ever lasts for me for long.
I glare through the windows at the sunny spring morning. “Tell me again why I have to go to this meeting?”
“Because you’ve already been fired by two other outfits who do this matchmaking shit, and we need to have you settled by the start of the season.”