Chicken Wings & Hot Babes

SPENCER!!! (2)

I peek from behind my eyelids in groggy fogginess: two missed calls and my phone is violently shaking again. I lay in bed with no motivation to move.

SPENCER!!!—SPENCER!!!—SPENCER!!!—

Beside my best friend’s flashing name is the time—7:33 a.m. My alarm clock failed to interrupt my dreams, again.

I answer the phone, “Hey man, what’s up?”

“Just hanging out,” Spencer replies. “What’s up?”

“You actually just woke me up,” I say. “You are the man! Thank you.”

“It’s Wednesday—we going to Hooters?”

“Yeah man. I’ve got to run though,” I say. “Thanks again for being my alarm clock. I’ll see you later.”

For four years, our phone calls mirror this one every time. Spencer and I met my senior year of high school, as I volunteered in Mrs. Graham’s class. She is one of the Exceptional Children’s instructors for Laney High School.

My free period aligned perfectly with their break and lunch: my two favorite periods.

As I walk into the cafeteria my first day, Mrs. Graham warned me about Spencer: his attitude is fierce, and he misbehaves to see a rise in those around him. The two sets-of-hands in charge of watching him appeared whooped before Spencer went through the food line.

Mrs. Graham challenged me; joking that if I came to help, she could use it the most with Spencer. I doubt she expected me to accept, seeing the condition of the other two.

Spencer and I hit it off like long-lost brothers. We ate lunch together daily, as far from the adults as we could. This way, we fooled around without bothering the teachers and other students. We talked about women, wrestling, and food, while trying not to be too distracted to eat, by his classmates curious enough to sit with us (Demetrius and Trevor most days).

Our friendship soon matured past the school campus; I invited him to dinner. A bro-date, we called it.

He had no opinion as to where we would go. I doubt he ever had such unlimited freedom of choice. Only one choice made sense in my mind: chicken is his favorite food and our favorite topic was “hot babes.”

After the first trip to Hooters, his choice was cemented—Spencer knew his favorite restaurant.

SPENCER!!!—SPENCER!!!—

I reach into my pocket to silence the vibration before it becomes a distraction to my classmates. He doesn’t take the hint; he calls three more times before giving up.

SPENCER!!! (4)

The phone calls don’t bother me. From time-to-time, people ask how I deal with Spencer’s constant nagging; these people are clueless.

Between classes, I answer his next call. “It’s Wednesday!” Spencer says, seeking confirmation we are still hanging out.

His mom explained to me that even on the days we don’t have plans, he tries to persuade her otherwise. The truth, when he realizes she is right, crushes his spirit.

“Oh yeah?” I tease. “What does that mean?”

“We go to Hooters,” Spencer replies. “We get some chicken wings and hot babes in bikinis.”

“Damn,” I say. “That sounds like an awesome plan, bro.”

I forget I’m not supposed to curse around him; he repeats anything and everything I say. It is worth hearing him get pumped on the other end of the line.

“I’m excited man. I’ll pick you up at 6:30. I’ve got to run though—peace out!”

I turn my phone off walking into my next class.

Calculus is the last thing on my mind: hot legs dance through my fancy.

SPENCER!!! (9)

A voicemail hangs on the top of my screen this time; I listen as Spencer whispers into the phone. I deduce he is in class and not supposed to be on the phone. The message cuts out early—an adult questions him in the background.

I don’t hear from him the rest of the day; I’m sure his phone found the teacher’s desk or his mother’s purse.

I whip into his driveway just before 7 p.m. and jog to the door; I know I’m late.

I see him through the glass door—he sits just inside, on the floor with his head down and his shoulders slouched forward, fiddling with the tips of his shoelaces.

I open the door without knocking; his eyes shoot towards me. His countenance revives as he jumps to his feet.

“What’s up, man?” he says.

Our hands swing towards one another: high five, back-of-the-hand tap, a dap, bring it in for a hug.

We’ve made our handshake on our first bro-date. It’s silky smooth at this point.

I speak with Mrs. Lori for a moment—correcting Spencer from, “hot babes” to saying, “beautiful ladies,” a reminder of his mother’s preferences.

Boy-talk in front of women is against the rules.

I pull the door behind us to begin our date—we can no longer be heard.

Eagerness paints across Spencer’s face.

“Chicken wings and hot babes with fat booties!” Spencer says.

“And best friends,” I add to his list. “Three of my favorites, for sure.”