So T22 is about the biggest broker on the floor, in spite of having shit for brains. And his parties are legendary. This is what I was worried about. It was like this in high school. I used to pal around with a few guys that wouldn’t drink. We would hang out in this guy Matt’s basement and shoot bumper pool and listen to Seal and drink Diet Pepsi out of two liter bottles, while our classmates were out getting shitfaced. We were dorks. So T22 has these blowout parties; I’ve heard there’s like sex right in the middle of everything. If you’ve ever heard a story about one of T22’s parties, it’s true. So T22 gives me a look last week, he says, “Yo bra, gonna have this size party at my place, check it out.” He doesn’t even tell me where his place is or how to get to it, because he knows that I know. He knows that I know that not only does he live in Russian Hill, he lives in the coolest house in Russian Hill. Maybe. But it is the most modern. You notice it, walking or driving by, you would say, “I wonder who lives there?” You’d never guess it was some drug-addicted floor monkey who makes errors all over the fucking place.

So a few hours ago I was at his house. I’m outside, and I can hear the bass, and I ring the bell, and I knock, and nothing. I am three hours late, because in California nobody shows up until at least an hour or two late, and I want to be really, really cool, not just really cool. So already it is two in the morning. I had to drink a bunch of Mountain Dew just to stay awake this long. I am usually in bed at eight just so I can get up at four. Already I know this is going to be an all-nighter. So I open the door and there’s some kind of modern art masterpiece staring me right in the face. It’s probably worth a hundred grand; T22 is just showing off that he can afford this. I head up the stairs and there it is.

Actually, it’s not too bad, if you don’t count the naked chicks on the floor on either side of Rob, one of T22’s broker buddies. Rob is on the floor with a big grin on his face. Two hookers are on either side of him, humping either side of his head with their tiny vaginas. They say they are giving him “earmuffs.” Everyone gets a big laugh. I looked around the rest of the room. There was an inch-high pile of cocaine on the coffee table, and another hooker who was stroking the magnificent mahogany woody of one of the lanky black clerks employed by T22. I looked away from that. Aside from that, there really wasn’t much else in the room, including furniture.

T22 materializes next to me. He gives me a double bro-shake, one with the thumb, and one without, and then snaps the thumb, and pats me on the back, and gives me a big, toothy grin with his gray teeth. I look at him, and I think, you washed your hair. He says he’s so glad that I could make it. Now we can get to know each other. And he’s pretty wasted, though he doesn’t appear to be high, which is a first. Maybe he just saves that for during the day.