text: I was made a fool last year. That would not happen again. No, this time, it would be Elias who would be the fool. Last year, I made some mistakes. This year, there would be no mistakes. No ridicule. No shame. I prepped my tools as best I could: a perfectly rolled (and laced) joint, a bottle of bourbon, and the will to go through with what had to be done. It wasn’t entirely Elias’s fault. But he was the one who had to pay. He had exacerbated the situation, and perpetuated the pain throughout the following months. Even last week, he couldn’t help but bring it up again. “Okay, Pee Pants!” he chided in front of a few of our fellow co-workers. The remark had lost its humor long ago, but it still managed to make Elias chuckle every time. Of course it did. He came up with it. I deserved some of the blame, to be sure. But it was Elias who had the opportunity to be a hero, rather than a villain. He chose the latter. Now, it was my turn. Elias opened his front door, wearing the same “ugly sweater” he’d worn to the office Christmas party last year. It featured Santa Claus, sunglasses on and cigar in hand, staring coolly out the driver’s side window of a 1960s muscle car. With Santa were a trio of bikini-clad women hanging out of each of the passenger windows, seemingly enjoying the ride. The caption in script across his chest read “Ho-Ho-Ho Indeed!”. “*Pee Pants* is here! Everybody keep an eye on him!” he said before I’d even crossed the threshold. I smiled, handed him the bottle of bourbon, and encouraged him to join me in a drink. He obliged, unsurprisingly. After the shared moment, I receded into the background of the get-together: standing around the table of hors d'oeuvres, nodding along to conversations I wasn’t listening to, and making sure Elias always had a drink in his hand. I wasn’t drinking much, though. Not after last year. I’d been quickly reminded of the incident with each trip to the bathroom. It was that bathroom that I’d nearly made it to last year. Nearly. Instead, I'd passed out on the bathroom floor, with the door still open, and pissed myself. I woke up some unknown amount of time later to an audience of my co-workers. Some of them were disgusted, others were amused, but it was Elias’s laughter that I remembered most vividly. “I had to show them! I-I-,” he choked out between laughs. “I had to show them! I’m sorry! Don’t be mad, *Pee Pants*!” Apparently Elias found me first. Rather than seeing if I was okay, or helping me clean up, he invited the rest of the party to the scene to join in his laughter. The reminders with each trip to the very same bathroom this year only strengthened my resolve. The party was nearly over, and I knew my moment would come. As I exited the scene of the crime for the final time, I watched the penultimate party-goer leave the house and Elias close his front door. “Welp, just us now!” he exclaimed, heading to the kitchen. “One more for the road?” he bellowed. The sound of him pouring two more shots followed. Sure, I replied. A classic rock song, I don’t remember which one, then came on over a speaker in the living room. Elias liked whatever it was, and immediately began bobbing his head and playing air guitar. We clanked shot glasses as he began to sing the lyrics, momentarily pausing for the drink, and picking up right where he left afterward. “I fuckin’ love this song,” he said, unnecessarily. “I bet it sounds great in your car,” I answered after I’d taken my shot of bourbon. “Yeah! It fuckin’ does!” he replied, waving me along as he began walking toward his garage. I felt in my front pocket for the joint, took a breath, and followed. The chill from the garage hit me instantly as Elias continued to strum his air-guitar on the way to his car. The car, which I do remember, was his pride and joy. A 1969 crimson Mercury Cougar. An undoubtedly nice car, but with how Elias talked about it, you’d think it could fly. As I opened the front passenger-side door, Elias started the car. He revved it loudly and smiled wide. Before I could form my lips to mention the fact that the garage door was closed, Elias quickly addressed the potential issue. “Calm down, it’s too cold to just sit out here without it running. We won’t be out here long, anyway,” he assured me. “Just a couple of songs. You have to hear how the new subs sound, I installed them last month.” Seconds later that same classic rock song from before was playing loudly through the car’s stereo, with Elias joining in on vocals. This was my opportunity. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the joint. “Whoa! I didn’t know you were a stoner!” Elias said with glee. “You’re going to share, right?” he asked with a laugh. Of course, I replied, handing him the joint with a smile on my face. Elias rolled the windows of the car down a tad, pulled a lighter out from the center console, and began to light the joint. Smoke quickly filled the car, as the music was joined by a series of coughs, rather than singing, from Elias. “Holy shit! This is some good stuff!” he yelled over the music as he passed me the joint. I told him it was called ‘Amontillado Kush’, but he didn’t hear me. Then Elias turned the music down to a volume that was easier to talk over. I held the joint up to my mouth, making sure to not inhale. “Hey man, I just wanted to apologize,” Elias said. “You know, for the Pee Pants stuff. It wasn’t cool. I can be a dick when I’m drunk.” I shrugged my shoulders while I pretended to exhale and cough, handing the joint back to him. “No, no, really. I’m sorry,” he continued. “I wouldn’t want someone taking advantage of me in a situation like that.” It was really no big deal, I assured him, offering a friendly smile. He took a couple more hits from the joint, and handed it back to me. “Thanks man, that means a lot,” Elias said. He then slumped down and his head thumped against the headrest. “Damn, that-that stuff fucked me up” he said, slurring his words. “I haven’t had the-the spins in a long time.” He turned his head and looked at me, clearly fading quickly. Looking at me blankly, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped further into his seat. I looked at the fuel gage, which told me the car had nearly three-quarters of a tank of gas left. That would work just fine. Exiting the car, I grabbed a nearby shammy cloth and began wiping every surface I’d touched. Standing at the door leading back into the house, I stared back at my masterpiece with the still-smoldering joint in my hand. I smiled, and headed inside. There I grabbed my nearly-empty bottle of bourbon, ran the joint under some water in the kitchen sink, and put my jacket on. As I left the house I placed the rest of the joint back into my pocket, and walked to my car. The rumbling of his idling car could still be heard through the garage door as I entered mine.