Obviously I've written beyond this point, even if things are pretty slow at the moment (the stress of finding a job is making it incredibly difficult to write, which is disappointing as I was hoping to use this time to dramatically advance my manuscript). Regardless, I did not see a reason to post a later moment when earlier moments are finished. So, here's the first draft of chapter 3.

            The bottle is a rich brown glass beaded with condensation. The smell of delicious IBC root beer wafts from its open mouth. Root beer is the closest Omar comes to drinking beer (or any other type of alcohol for that matter). It’s not for religious purposes or a history of alcoholism in his family. Ever since Mr. Murray explained to him in 8th-grade science class that inebriation is the gradual poisoning of the bloodstream, he’s had no interest in drinking. He doesn’t care for soft drinks or coffee either, but some days just require a consolation drink. Those days get IBC. Days like today.

            Do you see that guy at the desk, looking absently out the window? That’s Omar Thomas. Don’t judge him by his torn jeans or his faded Fat Albert t-shirt that looks like it’s from the 80s (it is). He’s not attempting an obnoxious vintage look. Omar is a 2L, a second-year law student at St. Louis University. He owns three pin-striped suits and is incredibly convincing when he wears them. He plans on being incredibly convincing to many a jury in those suits. All he had to do to afford them was cut back on clothing, food, and entertainment. So his wardrobe is care of Goodwill. Not that all clothes at Goodwill are this ratty, and certainly not all the clothes in Omar’s wardrobe are so, but today is Friday, and he wants to be as comfortable as possible. Friday is the day Omar balances his checkbook.

            Now, he’s not irresponsible. He has no credit card debt. He has no credit cards. He’s putting himself through law school just like he put himself through college. He doesn’t waste month on unnecessary extravagances or even the lesser necessities. Public school, state university, scholarship student, full time employee, all on his own. His internship is going well. Out of 460 applicants and 20 interns, he expects to be offered one of the two positions at the firm. After his final year of school, he would pass the bar and start practicing. He’d be able to afford some nicer clothes and a nicer apartment, maybe one without a roommate.

            Omar’s roommate is a shithead. He hasn’t paid his share of the rent for four months. Things have been lean, but this time, there’s just not enough money left. Omar sets the root beer bottle farther away on the desk. That stuff will have to last awhile.

            The first month someone is late, you give them a pass. The second you have a talk and they promise to pay you. The third, that’s the ultimatum month. The fourth, well Omar doesn’t actually know how he got talked out of the fourth month, but somehow he did. That’s the way it is with all things. The man just starts talking and by the time he’s done, Omar has agreed to wear a dress to a party. He didn’t plan on wearing a dress. He didn’t plan on going to the party, but by the end, he just wonders if they have heels in his size.

            God his roommate is a shithead.

            “Omar, you scurrilous so-and-so, where are you?” Cy shouts, bursting through the door. “Where are you, you sexy beast. I want to rub your head, make you all shiny like a black Mr. Clean.”

            Omar’s shoulders hunch. He is not in the mood for Cy and is not going to smile. He needs to get serious. Rent or he’s out. That’s it.

            “Cy, my apartment isn’t that big. If you look straight ahead, you will see a desk, a window, and me sitting beside both.”

            Cy gasps dramatically. “So I shall and so I do! Welcome me home, my friend, my brother, mon frère, mou frater. Today is a good day and I demand bonding.” A white long-hair cat trots in between Cy’s legs and immediately takes residence on the couch in a warm patch of sunlight, laying its head on its front legs and closing its eyes as if it has lived here all its life.

            “Cy, we need to talk,” Omar says, turning, steeling himself not to be hoodwinked again.

            “And so we are and so we shall continue to do so.” Trotting much like a cat himself, Cy smacks a playful kiss on top of Omar’s head. “You look distressed, mon capitaine. Why do you furrow your brow so?”

            “Are you high?” Omar eyes him suspiciously. Cy is flamboyant around him, that’s for sure, but this is over the top even for him.

            “High on life, is that not enough?” He does a little half-hop, kicking his heels together, but then grows more serious. “Seriously Omar what’s—” That’s when he sees the bottle. “Is it root beer day already?”

            “It’s not root beer day, Cy, it’s bill day. It’s money out of Omar’s pocket to cover Cy’s debt day.”

            “I know, but that takes too long to say, so I’ve encapsulated the entire thing into root beer day. I’m trying to figure out how I can sell that to the root beer industry as a slogan of some kind…”

            Omar throws his head into his hands. He wants to smile and that actually makes him angrier. He doesn’t want Cy to be funny. He wants him to be serious. He can be funny after he’s paid his rent.

            “You’ll have to start showering at Christie’s,” Omar says, not pulling his face from his hands. “They’re going to shut off the hot water soon.”

            “No they’re not.”

            “Yes, Cy. Yes they are. I didn’t pay the bill last month and I can’t afford to pay it this month. When you do that, they shut off your hot water.” He swings his chair around and slouches over the desk. He grabs the bottle and takes a long drag. So much for making it last.

            “I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to answer honestly,” Cy says.

            “Fine.”

            “How long have we lived together?”

            “Five months.”

            “And how many of those five months have I paid my share of the rent and utilities?”

            “One month.”

            “And how much time is left on our lease together?”

            “Nineteen months, but—”

            “No buts!” Cy shouts, pointing his finger to the ceiling as if he just made a royal proclamation. “Nineteen months.”

            “Would it make things easier if I paid my back rent?”

            “I’m not sure about easier, but we would have hot water.”

            “Oh ho, so would it make things easier if I paid my front rent?”

            “…” Omar opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. His brain has trouble understanding Cy paying anything before it’s due. Finally he decides to simply follow along and see where this is going. “Yes.”

            “BAM!” Cy shouts, dropping a rather heavy stack of dollars bills (bound) onto the desk, which makes a similar if softer thumping noise. “Twenty-three months’ rent and averaged utilities paid in full. Now—”

            “Cy, I don’t know what to—”

            “Now, you don’t pay that all to the landlord up front. You go put it in a savings account and earn some interest on it. Maybe buy a new Fat Albert shirt from this century. They make those, you know.”

            Cy whistles and heads to the kitchen. Omar sits and stares at the money in his hands.

            “Can I have a root beer?” Cy shouts.

            “Bring me one too,” Omar grabs his open bottle and downs it as Cy crosses back to the desk. He hands his roommate the fresh bottle. Omar traces the raised logo with his thumb, staring through the bottle not at it. A light of comprehension (of apprehension) turns on behind his eyes. He throws the money back onto the desk, pushes it to the far corner, then rolls his chair away from it as if it were radioactive.

            “Where did you get all this money, Cy?” he asks. Then sudden tension in the room is thick as fog.

            “Giving BJs down on Cherokee. Twenty dollars a pop plus tips. I’m vrry good. A couple hours of that and bam, Tom’s your father.”

            “Twenty a pop?”

            “I’m vrrry good.” Cy smiles, and he feels the tension ease. Omar arches an eyebrow and smiles, but waits for an honest answer.

            “I sold a piece,” Cy answers more seriously. “A new choker I’ve been working on all year. A commission job, high end, big pay.”

            Omar stares him directly in the eye for a long moment, looking for the truth. He turns and looks at the money, stepping out of his chair and picks it up, daring to touch it. He flips through the bills and looks up at Cy. Cy wonders if his roommate is flipping through the bills absently or making sure that Monopoly money isn’t hidden in the center.

            Why are you paying it all up front? You don’t owe this much,” Omar asks.

            “Was it easy for you these past few months?”

            “No.”

            “No. And I won’t have another job like this for awhile. I could pay what I owe you, but we’ll just start the same cycle all over again.” Cy steps past him and looks out the window. Now he’s the one hiding thoughts behind his eyes.

            “Thank you, Cy,” Omar says.

            Cy shrugs. “Don’t mention it. I would have just spent it on booze, whores, gambling, and other sordid acts of debauchery too lewd for your young ears.” His eyes focus and he gives Omar a wink. “You’re a good kid.”

            “Kid? You’re what, ten years older than me?” Omar smacks Cy across the shoulder and then spins around his chair, approaching his checkbook with an uncommon enthusiasm.

            “Something like that,” Cy says under his breath, walking to the couch. He sits and pets Mr. Whiskers.