The Impossible World of Easton Mcclaire

Friday Bar Nights

(Boys ain't shit by SAYGRACE)^^^^

btw Lila is pronounced like (L-ILL-UH)****

You might be asking if that is the extent of what Lilla Stewart did to fuck up my life. Just an unusually disturbing taxi ride and an empty bank account? The answer is hell no. The series of events that followed the unfortunate day that I met Lilla Stewart is like a fever dream. If I could go back in time to the day I saw that bag of confetti, I would've sprinted to another intersection. Unfortunately, because I didn't, I had to deal with the repercussions of knowing a Lilla Stewart.

The day after I met Lilla and drained her bank account, I went about my day as usual. I still had the notepad with Lilla's information on it and I'm sure she was wondering where her phone call and job meeting was. Surprisingly, it didn't bring me as much satisfaction as I thought. Probably because thinking of her at all gave me an unbearable headache and I was still hungover from sitting next to her for almost 15 minutes.

I woke up earlier than usual and got dressed in my usual attire. This morning I had received a call from grandma saying she'd been missing me and she wanted me to come over for dinner this weekend. As badly as I wanted to refuse my grandmother's stuffed cabbage, I knew that I probably wouldn't have her for much longer so I should go. It was an asshole thing to say but I had to be honest with myself. Reluctantly, I accepted the offer. Then I went about my day as usual; catching the subway to the city and hitting the pavement by 10 am. The day started off slow with little to no snags but it only got better.

I met a man named Peter Koffman who works for the New York Chronicles. He was snappy, old, and filthy rich. He talked to me about his son Brian the entire time; commenting on how much we looked alike and how smart and young he was. Apparently, his son used his daddy's money to open up his own restaurant in Manhattan. I tried to block out all of the useless comments but I couldn't help but retain some of them. While he was giving me his son's business card out of his briefcase,  I took his wallet and I was on my way shortly after.  

His bank account was astounding 200k deep which meant I got a huge payday. It was definitely one of my largest payouts. I settled on taking 25k, although I should've taken more after the measly 1500 I made yesterday. Thank you, Lilla. Then, to celebrate I went to Papa Bucky's Bar down in the nasty part of Greenwood Heights. It was my usual spot for a late-night celebration. My celebrations were just me getting drunk while watching Friday Night Light reruns on the dusty box television hanging in the corner of the bar.

Now let me set the scene for the catastrophic event that led to my left being ruined.

I was 5 Guinness beers in and crippled Jason street was hitting Tim Riggins for sleeping with his girlfriend--while he was in the hospital recovering from being cripple--and all of a sudden I heard a familiar yet unfamiliar annoying sound creeping up behind me. The person was crying as their shoes slide against the mud-caked concrete floor. Whimpers lept out of their mouth as they shuffled behind me. They flopped into a chair a couple down from me and motioned for the bartender with a hand wave. I couldn't see the person's face but I could tell from their voice that it was a female. Her manicured sparkly lime green nails poked out from her sleeves. The "stranger" had a hoodie pulled over their head. Honestly, I looked too fast and thought I was sitting next to the grim reaper but then I saw the woman-like figure and sighed in relief. Her long black yoga pants left nothing to imagination. Her butt was plump and her thighs; nice and thick. Everyone took their turns checking her out before returning to their drinks and games. It was weird for a girl to be here. Especially females of her nature.

"Can I get a vodka cran please?" The voice quivered. "Actually can I get two please?" The voice said again. "Actually get me three." Then they broke out into a full sob.