The vest: every man's secret weapon [1]

The day started with a phone call. Augie Emerson’s Nokia was buzzing insistently for what felt like the thousandth time that week.
He groaned and rolled over, not even bothering to check the id. He knew who was calling anyways. Wonder why he can’t just leave a man to sleep in peace?
But now that Augie woke up, he couldn’t seem to slip back to sleep. The heat was impossible, stifling, and…smelly. With an audible groan he rolled out of bed in one swift, jerky motion. The floor, worn smooth from age, felt chilly under his feet. He tried to ignore the urge to slump down and press his face into the filthy wood and instead stumped into the kitchen, pouring a bowl of sugar puffs and munching morosely.
He allowed his mind to stray. His father’s face swam before his eyes, the way he had looked the night Augie left. His father is brutally handsome. Every girl wanted to shag him and every man wanted to be him. Which is kind of gross, Augie reflected, because it’s his dad. But still, everyone knows it anyways. And despite all that glamour and charm, here Augie sat.
He should be in college right now. He should be cramming for pointless tests and eating entirely too much junk food and getting wasted off of warm beer. But instead Augie sat at the crappy kitchen table in his crappy apartment smack in the middle of this crappy town. And all because of some woman he didn’t know and probably would have despised anyway.
He thought back to his moment of blinding realization. It all seemed so right at the time: buy a ticket, escape Boston, and find his mother in some distant town, just like one of those Sunday afternoon television exposés. But turns out in real life tickets cost all of your money, your “parents” won’t stop calling, and your mom might be, oh I dunno, dead.
Augie rinsed out his bowl, deciding not to dwell anymore. He returned to his bedroom, searching the floor for his vest. Vests for the bartenders at Larry’s seriously had to be the classiest thing this town had… that and the bouncer at Isabella’s maybe. He finally found it, balled up with his white button down near the corner of his bed. He grabbed the two, also sweeping his slacks up from the back of his desk chair and proceeded to get dressed for work in front of the cracked mirror that hung on the back of his bathroom door. He almost saw his father’s face looking back at him. It so happens, he is the spitting image of just the man he was trying to avoid.
“Augie Emerson,” he said aloud. “You are thoroughly average.” And he truly meant it. His dark hair stood up at odd angles and he just had a… pallid look about him, like some sort of stupid vampire. He turned away from the mirror, buttoning his vest. This was his favorite part of his crummy uniform. Countless chicks had told him how sexy he looked wearing it. Countless drunk chicks. But still…
He scooped up his phone from where he’d attempted to smash it after his “mom’s” twelfth call and dropped it in his pocket before leaving the dimly lit apartment, locking up with the spare key before sliding it back under the mat. He turned, tucking his shirttails in and was confronted with his only neighbor. Augie bowed his head and moved past him without saying hello. The man was carrying a paper bag with several loafs of bread with him in one hand and a battered guitar case in the other. Augie considered himself a friendly person, but something about this guy’s gruff silence and stench of cigarettes did not invite conversation.
He began thumping down the stairs. The elevator in this place made him feel claustrophobic and insecure. And anyways, it always seemed a bit senseless to him, elevators. It was almost quicker to take the stairs with all that button mashing and door opening. He emerged onto the sidewalk a moment later, fuming. His phone was vibrating in his pocket…again. This is too much. He tore the small, buzzing box out of his pocket and smashed the green glowing button.
“Dad,” he said firmly, praying he wouldn’t do something too stupid. “Fuck off, just please, fuck—“
“Mr. Emerson?”
Augie’s breath caught in his throat. He checked the caller id. The voice coming from the tinny speaker only confirmed his horrified realization.
“This is Jane King from Benedict T Jones? I regret to inform you that the position of fourth grade professor has been filled…” When he made no reply, poor Miss King took a deep breath and plunged on. “We’ll keep your application on file in case another position opens up…?” she supplied helpfully.
“Nah, don’t bother,” Augie sighed finally. “I have another—ehm… job now,” he finished lamely. He pressed the end button without bothering to say goodbye. Shame, really. Miss King was official and sparkly and charming. And she seemed to like him well enough, even without his vest. She had even given him her personal number, which seemed odd considering how… Augie he is. He had lost the number in the wash the very next day.
Augie grimaced to himself, jaywalking sunset terrace and trying not to think of how he had desperately stumbled into the school on the south side of town two weeks previously. The fourth grade teacher had just been sacked, he heard the rumor over at Casa so he had a scup of black coffee and marched up to the school. He had pawned off virtually everything he owned at this point and needed money if he wanted to keep his apartment. Which he didn’t particularly, but he had felt like it was the correct thing to do, finding a job and money so he had applied. Looking back, it must have been some sort of joke. Who was he to fill little nine-year-olds’ heads with knowledge? He can’t even seem to mix a decent Appletini. Maybe because that drink’s for pansies anyways.
He walked into Larry’s Bar, taking in the rank smell of booze and vomit. It wasn’t until he had taken his leave of it, did he realize how peculiar it smelled outside. But no time to scrutinize every little detail of the city block, because as pathetic as it was that people in this town drink this early, 2 o’clock is when his shift began, and he was almost always late.
He took his position behind the bar, tying the grubby little apron around his middle.
“Hey there, Champ, you’re—you’re—“ a man in a sweaty suit sat in the middle of the bar hicoughing, an empty glass in front of him, his eyes slipping in and out of focus.
“AUGUSTUS!” came a horrid cry.
“I’m here Matilda,” Augie said in a regular voice.
“Good. I’m leaving,” replied Matilda, waddling out of the back room and handing him the keys to the bar. “Lock up when you’re done.”
Augie nodded mutely. Another long-ass shift of watching pathetic men drink their problems away.
“You’re—you’re real handsome—” the man continued. He must be a businessman from the big city. They take the train out to the last stop and get smashed before going home to their wife and kids and playing the perfect family man. How metaphoric.
“Thank you sir, can I get you something else to drink?” I said, trying to disguise the boredom in my voice.
“No, I’ve probably had too…too…” and with that he leaned over his stool and hurled all over the floor. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.