The Flavors of Houston

Eric blitzed through the Pho Saigon entrance and slowed to a swagger. He lifted his red shades at the small Vietnamese lady who quickly greeted him.

"Vietnamese iced coffee and a pork sandwich," he said. His face fell when she didn't return his smile with a smile. 

"Okay, $8.53."

He raised his eyebrows and frowned a bit, searching his pockets for his wallet. He flicked her his Chase card. He only tipped 15% instead of his usual 20%.

"Sit over there. 10 minutes," she said, pointing. 

He found a different corner of the restaurant than where she pointed as a passive aggressive way to spite her. He found that the little things aggravated people more than the big things, and he especially liked it when he could explain his ways of annoying people as blunders rather than choices. 

The other customers occasionally raised their eyes from slurping down bowls of pho to glance at him. Eric felt cornered and pulled out his phone. He busied himself on social media by scrolling and reacting to posts, keeping a hand on the side of his head to relax. 

"Here," said the Vietnamese lady impatiently, not deigning to look at him. 

"Thanks," said Eric, smiling dumbly. He snatched his food and left.

When he got home he grabbed Siracha sauce from his fridge and lightly squeezed some into his sandwich. He felt like a sinner but grabbed a bag of Ruffles as a side dish. 

Re-watching the first episode of Severance as he ate turned out to be a mistake. It didn't hit as much as he thought it would. He felt himself dozing off—despite the Vietnamese coffee—as he fed scraps to his puppy, a boxer named Buddy. 

"Good boy."

He cried a little, not sure what emotion, exactly, he was feeling. He opened his journal. 

Life is confusing. My friend Jack died, and I don't feel anything at all. I feel numb. Or is this numbness my way of feeling the grief inside me? Why don't my feelings ever match reality?

He considered how Jack had killed himself with a rope. What an odd choice. Why not a bullet or an OD? Surely those would have been less painful ways to go. Then a horrible thought struck him. What if Jack had wanted to feel that pain for some reason? 

When he and Jack were little they would run around the house playing with G.I. JOEs and toy guns. Later toy guns turned to video games, and video games turned to games with women's hearts. Jack was always more confident than Eric too. He could pull off a pick-up line and bring just about any girl home with him. 

After college was no different. He could sally home a target from a corporate volunteer event (and had a few times). Jack wasn't spiritual, but he "firmly believed in God" and "knew he would go to heaven". Eric found this entertaining as a non believer. 

"What do you think heaven will be like?" he would ask Jack. 

"Maybe this but without all the bullshit," Jack would say. 

Jack didn't bother with beer except to chase shots of Woodford Reserve. People thought it odd that he did shots of whiskey, but Jack didn't care as long as it wasn't Vodka. 

Nothing suggested to Eric that Jack was unhappy except on one drive through Pasadena when Jack had let him in on a little secret. 

"I should've," he hiccupped, "entered the military." On this rare occasion, Jack had a hoppy beer in his cupholder as he drove Eric in his Audi around the city, drunk off his ass.

"What?" asked Eric in disbelief. 

"My dad never forgave me," said Jack. "He called me a pussy." Jack cried too, which Eric had never seen.

How could someone so confident feel like a pussy? thought Eric. 

Then he considered that maybe Jack's whole life was a mask for a deeper well of insecurity he knew nothing about. Perhaps Jack was deeply unsettled and pretended to be happy for the world, while harboring an unbelievable suffering within. Jack could never settle down with a girl, perhaps because he never felt worthy of one. 

It was only 2 P.M. but Eric waltzed to the fridge and tip-toed to grab the Woodford sitting in the cabinet above. He poured a shot and raised a glass towards Buddy. 

"To you, Jack," said Eric. "I hope you're in heaven." Eric cried as he sipped on the shot (he could never slurp these down like Jack could). He was happy his emotions now matched reality.