The Zenith Angle - Bruce Sterling [48]
Tony put his black shoulder bag on Van’s peeling Formica counter. He unzipped it and displayed a newly purchased bottle of brandy and Benedictine, still in a paper sack. The B&B bottle was two bottles really, double-necked and welded together. Glass twins in green and yellow.
In their teenage undergraduate days, Van and Tony had considered brandy with Benedictine to be the height of sophisticated drinking. It was, of course, illegal for them to be drinking at all, and doubly illegal to do it on campus, which made a doubled form of booze even tastier, somehow. They each had elaborate theories on the exact proportions of brandy and Benedictine necessary to get properly hammered.
The sight of the two crooked bottles gave Van a warm nostalgic glow. There had been such innocent joy in his life then. Tony had been such good fun. Tony Carew was the guy who had found Van the best fun he had ever had: a serious girlfriend.
Van had never before had a roommate who could match him in intelligence. And it hadn’t hurt Van’s feelings any that Tony was witty, fast-talking, and great around girls.
Tony took off his brand-new hat and placed it on top of his bag, so that his hat would not have to touch the disgusting countertop. “I don’t suppose there’s such a thing as a ‘snifter’ around here.”
Van fetched them a couple of jumbo disposable foam cups. He’d been meaning to buy himself some glassware, but had never found the chance.
Tony set to work to open the bottles. Van checked the Casio strapped to his wrist. It was only 6:00 P.M. “Are you drinking, Tony?”
“How could I not?” Tony said. “I just came back from a rotten little holiday emergency in the bowels of the FCC.”
“Oh.”
“No, Van, it’s even worse than that. I strongly advise you to join me immediately in a heavy boozing session.”
“All right.” Van knew that Tony had a point. He knew it all too well.
Tony poured their potions. He clowned around with the flimsy cups, acting drunk already. Tony wasn’t genuinely wasted yet—Van pretty well knew what Tony looked like under those conditions—but Tony definitely had that first, lit-up look.
Tony had brought a burden with him. It couldn’t be just the awesome, industry-smashing train wreck in federal telecommunications policy. Tony would not have come here personally just for that.
Tony’s priorities shifted around some, but Tony was always Tony. Tony Carew was into money, women, technology, and status games. Tony Carew was a very charming guy. He was fluent and persuasive. Van had never competed with Tony in those aspects of life. That was why Tony trusted him.
Like most overachievers, Tony had personal burdens that weighed on him like anvils. But Tony’s idea of burdens—the big money, the fast women, the struggle for status—those things fell on Van like a light refreshing rain. From their first day as friends, Van had been able to drink in Tony’s problems. Van didn’t judge Tony, he didn’t scold. He couldn’t even say that he sympathized. He needed Tony to trust him, somehow. He needed to be trusted with those things.
Van offered Tony the magnesium chair and sat on the weight-lifting bench.
Tony stroked the shining chair. With Tony inside it, it was a throne. “Wow! You should get a dozen of these. They stack!”
“Great idea.” Van tilted his flimsy white cup and sipped his B&B. Instantly, its familiar velvety burn made him feel nineteen years old.
Tony studied the apartment’s bare walls. Van had managed to rid himself of the kung-fu posters, along with all the previous tenant’s possessions. He had kept the weight-lifting set, though. The weights were his consolation prize.
“Van, couldn’t the NSC get you a furnished apartment?”
“It was furnished, Tony. I threw everything out.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “So you swept it all for bugs, huh? Yeah, I’ve seen that done before. Man, that really wrecks the place.”
Van shrugged.
“Van, I can’t believe they made you into a fed. I know you’ve got the right