Who: Chris, and anybody else who wants to come. What: Barbecue beach party, celebrations for the 4th, and complaining about jobs! WHAT FUN. Where: The beach not far from Pax. When: Saturday, about 7 at night. Warnings: EXPLOSIONS. Probably. Notes: Feel free to treat this as a party-style post - tag to anyone, enjoy food, move time as you see fit.
True to her word, Sheila had helped Chris stop by the store on their way back from work to grab supplies. It wasn't the kind of money he wanted to spend, but not having to buy it all on his own dollar was nice; and besides, it meant he could figure out exactly how it was she wanted him to "smile" or whatever in order to eat. Also, he could guilt her over it. If he paid for the food, there was no way she could deny it to him. Probably.
So after they got back to the building and he managed to pack everything up into his car (because he'd be fucked if he was carrying all that down three flights of stairs, across the streets, onto the beach, and then go back; not only was it a serious pain in the ass, but somebody was bound to steal it while he was away, the fuckheads), Chris got to the beach and started dragging things out around the barbecue, right around 7. He stared at the actual thing itself, embedded in the sand to keep it upright, bearing the marks of failed grills past. He was not really an outdoor kind of cook. An automatic gas stove, he could work. Something like this? A little less so.
Though the potential for a shitton of lighter fluid and a couple of matches was more than tempting enough. He stood in front of the grill, holding the bottle, contemplating his next move: try to start this properly, or say fuck it and see how high the flame would go?