I shrugged. “I think you’ll find people like that anywhere,” I said in a voice I hardly recognized.

“A hell of a lot of money there, though, that’s for sure,” he said, and then apropos of nothing he began telling me of his penniless beginnings, of how he got to where he was because of hard work and determination, detailing step by step how he had paid his way through both undergraduate and graduate school on his way to becoming a self-made man. He was very proud of it, and his story reeked of the obvious self-aggrandizing desire to smoke his own ham in front of the new guy and, furthermore, to trump my story of being a state champion, which he somehow felt diminished his own accomplishments. Nobody asked a single question when he finished; it was very obvious by their reactions that the other guys had heard this story before, and probably more than once. As for me, I didn’t care that he had paid for his own education. I had, too, aside from a small athletic scholarship, and I still had the loans to prove it, but what better was I because of it? It didn’t make me study any harder or strive for better grades. I wasn’t richer for the experience. All it did was create a hell of a lot of unneeded stress during an already stressful time, which hindered my grades, not helped them. I would have gladly let somebody else foot the bill.

I looked down. The martini glass was filled with only the olives. Another round of shots and drinks was ordered. More Scotch. I was surprised to see these guys drinking as hard as they were, considering they all had to work the next day.

Frank’s story had left a bitter taste in my mouth. I tried shrugging off the fact that the guy across from me was far better looking and had a hell of a lot more money, all of which he had made on his own, had a better education, and would go on to marry a far more beautiful woman with whom he’d live in a huge house filled with well-behaved children. And there I sat across from him, able to carry on my back everything I owned, with less than three hundred bucks in my wallet. And now I could add the word vagabond to my description. I shook my head. I had drunk enough to be susceptible to sadness, still two drinks away from being immune. I would have four to be on the safe side.

The server brought our drinks. I had a Scotch on ice to chase a shot of Scotch. There was no escaping it. Everyone at the table had a limited dictionary of drinks with a single entry: Scotch. I had had enough Scotch already. I now hated the word.