Standing next to me were two men: my best alcoholic friend (also my alcoholic best friend) and my angry younger brother. Beside them was a laptop, or what remained of it (sheet metal, valuable copper). And here I was, stuck in the middle.
“Listen. It’s not that we don’t like you. We love you. We love sober you. But we don’t love when you act this way.”
“Come on man, it was a mistake. You know I barely have the money to pay for this. If you tell them your brother dropped it or something, they might pay for it.”
I looked at him.
“You know that isn’t fair. Come on. It was an accident, but you should have prevented it. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to pay for it.”
A glimpse of rage.
“If I’m paying for it, then it’s my fault? I had no control. It’s not my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, maybe. But I know it was drunk you’s fault.”
A glimpse of shame.
“Sorry. But you need to do this.”
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