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Shit’s fucked. Which was why Ben was spending so muchctime away from O’s place. He knew King was upset with him. He should’ve known what vices he’d get into as soon as he stepped on the dirty concrete for the first time in two years. Now, he was right near Central Park, a place he hadn’t been to in years, looking at The Pond. Ben was extremely neurotic but sometimes watching water calmed him down to a certain extent. His impulsiveness pretty much trumped everything else. 

“Is it acceptable to go skinny dipping in January?” The lake looked a bit gross, but he’d do it. “I’ll give these tourists something that they’ll really remember.” Due to global warming, the body of water was pretty peaceful looking right now with no signs of ice. “I’d suggest going ice skating but I don’t think that’d work.” 

Ben was thankful for BYOB. He finally got to bring himself some microbrew. None of these people ever experienced how amazing beer was like he had. He donned a white suit. To the outside world, he felt as if most of them knew him as little pure Benjamin Vanderbilt. Or at least they did. He used his bottle opener to open his beer up and took the cap into his free hand. “By the end of the night, I think that I’m going to need to carry around a garbage bag for all of these,” He said as he showed his bottle cap to the other person. “Time is also just a social construct, but that’s another lecture for another day. It’s probably hard for Americans to grasp that.”

Bemelman’s was always full of tourists who wanted in on a hitting up the bar scene. To Ben, that was perfect. He was tired of the looks, the whispers. He told himself he didn’t care about any of that, but that was far from the truth."I’m over everyone staring at me,” He mumbled, looking at the drink in front of him. “Tell me something though,” He said, turning his whole body with him as he spoke. “Why does beer always taste a lot better from the bottle rather than from the tap? I feel like I’m drinking expired apple juice.” He noted, giving his head a shake in disappointment.

He felt like human wrapping paper wearing his festive suit. If he was put under the tree, he could probably have passed as a present. When he was younger, he loved Christmas. Well, until his father told him that Santa wasn’t real. He was still trying to adjust back into the Upper East Side party manner. At least he had alcohol as a social lubricant. “You know kids in England leave Santa some beer. Do they not think he could get drunk?” He asked, “Imagine consuming that much alcohol in a minimal amount of time. He wouldn’t legally be allowed to fly that sleigh.”