Mickey felt like death. Not only was he up earlier than he had ever been up, but his head and his stomach seemed to be engaged in some sort of war with each other. His head, which pounded steadily, seemed to be winning, as he emptied his stomach for the third time that morning. Was this what he'd heard called a hangover? He wasn't sure, but he sure didn't like it.
Wiping some errant vomit from his mouth, he stared at his pale face in the mirror. He had bags under his eyes, which were entirely bloodshot. What had he done last night? He remembered heading to a local bar, and ordering a couple drinks, but outside of that it was all a blur. He thought that he remembered seeing Jon, but that seemed unlikely and he dismissed it as a dream.
The water that he splashed on his face was cold, but it shook him from the cloud of wooziness long enough for him to get a couple Tylenols down. He closed his eyes, feeling the room spin, and listened to the water run.
"How am I ever going to get through today?" he moaned to himself. When he felt sick like this he missed his mom, but he knew that that desire would have to wait until the game was done. For now he'd have to man up and be the best Jack Withers that he could.
He turned off the tap and said, "Fuck it," since that's what Jack would have done. He made his way to the bedroom and grabbed his busdriver's outfit, since that is what Jack would have done too. Dropping the clothes on the bed, he then went back to the bathroom and had himself a long hot shower, spending a long time on his private parts, since he was sure that Jack would have done the same.
When he was clean and dry, he threw on his clothes (which magically changed to fit him unnoticed) and walked out the door. The cold morning air woke him up again, helping him shake another wave of nausea. The air smelled fresh, like spring, and he hoped that was a good sign of things to come. He would need all the help he could get to get through his first day driving the bus.
