The End of FUN Read Online Free PDF Page B

could see. As I wandered around looking for the reception desk, I had a funny thought: maybe he was still here in spirit, Grandpa, flitting from machine to machine like a bad luck fairy, dropping the odds by factors of 10.
    The price for a room was crazy cheap, so that was good, and they didn’t check my age, and that was good, too. The lady swiped my eyes, then gave me a key card and a paper map with room 308 circled on it. It was on the top floor, and I swear I was the only one up there. The room was small and smelly and appeared to have been furnished from items stolen from other motels…but the hot water worked, and for a4,999.98 what more could you expect?

After the train ride and motel search I was ready to crash. But first I had to YAY! SleepHunt ® , and after that I took a shower, and when I was done I realized how hungry I was. When was the last time I’d eaten? I got dressed and went down to the casino again. The coffee shop was closed for renovations, but there was a Mexican-themed restaurant/bar at the other end. (YAY! for Lucky Pedro’s.)
    The sign said SEAT YOURSELF , so I did. I took a seat on a padded barstool, lit a smókz ™ , and turned my attention to the wall behind the bar. It was one of those birthday walls, the ones where if it’s your birthday they come out with a big sombrero, plop it on your head, and take a picture. Everyone up there was smiling, having the time of their lives in their sombreros—almost everyone anyway. There were a few who you could tell weren’t too thrilled about the situation. Glaring at the camera like:
Just take the effin’ picture already
.
    Anyway, I was checking out the wall, and next thing you know, the bartender’s all in my face.
    â€œHey, pal, I’m gonna need to see some ID.”
    â€œOK. Hold on.” I brought up my burner account, the one that says I’m 22.
    But the guy wasn’t having it.
    â€œActual, legit, government-issued photo ID. None of this virtual BS. If I don’t see an ID, you don’t drink. Got it?”
    â€œWhat kind of place can’t check a virtual ID?”
    â€œ
This
kind of place, buddy. And if you aren’t twenty-one, you can’t sit at the bar.”
    â€œBut I
am
twenty-one. Twenty-
two
, actually.”
    I gave him the rundown. I was Arnold Hamilton from Uniontown, PA. Age: 22. Birthday: August 1. Height 6′2″. Eyes: brown. Hair: brown. Willing to donate organs in case of death.
    The dude wasn’t having it.
    â€œYou can sit at a table and drink a soda pop,
Arnold
.”
    So that’s what I did—but not after putting in an order for some nachos.
    â€œAnd easy on the onions,” I said, just to have the last word.
    I sat down at a table just as this girl walked in—or more like a woman. Like in her twenties, maybe.
    â€œBlake,” she said. “How long is the coffee shop closed for?”
    The bartender considered her for a long moment. “How should I know?” he said at last.
    â€œBecause you work here.”
    â€œI work…
here
,” he said. “Lucky Pedro’s. I do not work at the coffee shop.”
    The woman adjusted the bag on her shoulder. She was wearing a long gray skirt and this puffy gray sweater with red stitching.
    â€œDo you or do you not serve coffee?” she said at last.
    â€œYeah, we serve coffee.”
    â€œI will have one coffee, then. Thank you.”
    The woman sat at a table in the far corner to read a book. The bartender poured a cup of coffee and set it on the bar. He wasn’t gonna bring it to her. But the woman wasn’t gonna look up from her book, either. It was a Mexican standoff. Meanwhile, the coffee was just sitting there getting cold. And a little voice in my head was like,
Dude, you should bring her that coffee
. And another voice was like,
    > what up original boy_2?
    u r a FAIL !
    u seem maybe agitated?
    â€œHomie ™ ,” I whispered,