The list of places I am no longer welcome continues to grow; the number of people willing to put up with my shit seems to be shrinking.
Thankfully, it wasn’t an accidental cohabitation situation with a blonde disaster like the last time. Regrettably, it was a friend from high school who wanted to meet, “just to catch up.” After thirty some years of not actually seeing each other’s faces.
We somehow managed to stay in touch over the years. At least as far as the big life events were concerned–births, deaths, her too many affairs.
It was always the middle of the night when my phone would ring. Another transcontinental call. She knew I would be awake. And probably drunk enough to talk her back from whatever emotional ledge was looming.
She was visiting this frangible rust belt town on one of her convention crawls. Whoring herself out for the sake of the sale had paid off well for her–the McMansions, the wheeled toys, the vacations. But she was never exactly what I would call “happy.”
Her borderline alcoholism was almost adorable when compared to a more crippling kind. There was much about our lives and respective stations that clashed. But maybe that high-proof detail is what made it so fun.
She wanted to start the night at a sushi place she heard was good. I tried nudging her into a different choice. Because we are nowhere near a fucking ocean. And Lake Michigan, though an impressive body of water, does not count.
Here in the middle of the Midwest, the only “seafood” that existed growing up were the blue cans of tuna that overworked parents turned into casseroles and the eviscerated bluegill and bass caught at the lake on summer vacation.
She pressed; I resisted. She insisted; I remained unswayed. She offered to pay the tab; I acquiesced, willing to exchange my integrity for a night out.
I guess we are both sellouts.
Ubered to the meetup because I knew that drinking was going to be involved–I was already well on my way. And that leaves no room for driving.
Arrived early at the restaurant and waited out front. To fill the time, I emptied my flask. It helped ward off both the bitchy weather and the dodgy stares of better dressed patrons walking into their reservations.
She rolled up in her fancy rental and parked. The wind caught her auburn hair when she got out of the car. It reminded me of that night during our senior year. The night she crashed that party, fashionably late and astoundingly high.
The hug shared was awkward. Familiar, yet strange. And that awkwardness helped foster the urge for better inebriation. So, we headed inside and were quickly led to our table.
She ordered us sake.
I fucking hate sake.
No matter how expensive or fancy, it always just tastes like feet. And something about it nudges me to do stupid shit. Even more so than normal. For some people, it’s tequila. Others, whiskey is their liquid devil. For me, apparently, it’s fermented rice that brings out my true inner idiot.
The vibe at the table was weird.
There was a strange mix of flirting and hesitation. The kicker that set off a tailspin of bad decisions was when she confessed to having had a crush on me, “back in the day.”
Like, what was I supposed to do with that information? Why even tell me something like that, thirty years later?
It seemed unnecessarily cruel.
Our conversation was struggling. We needed food to help fill the gaps. She was kind enough to order for me since I’m apparently not sophisticated enough to be conversant in the various categories of bait raw fish.
We continued with the sake pours and small talk until the food arrived. Thankfully, there was a candle on our table. One large enough that it allowed me to roast pieces of fish stabbed with a single chopstick.
She seemed displeased with my lack of table manners. But it seemed a perfectly reasonable solution. Especially that far into the sake.
The waitress wasn’t amused at the improvised fish fry at her table, either. I just shrugged my shoulders and continued to cook my dinner. My friend shook her head, trying her best to project her “Mom stare” at me.
More sake.
For me, anyway. She had cut herself off, figuring there should be at least one adult present. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.
Then some weird dessert thing consisting of squishy rice balls with bizarre fillings appeared. I’m sorry, but any kind of bean beyond vanilla doesn’t really count as dessert in my head. I didn’t feel bad loudly complaining that someone had mistakenly ordered a plate of albino testicles.
Surprisingly, given their texture, they didn’t even stick to the ceiling. But I kept trying, anyway.
More sake.
I apparently tried to DoorDash Taco Bell to the table. But I didn’t know the address. And she refused to tell me.
More sake.
The last clear thing I can recall were the exclamations of shocked patrons when I attempted to “water” the vestibule topiary before my friend shoved me down the hall and through the door to the bathroom.
Then I woke up in her hotel room.
Despite the warnings plastered everywhere, I lit a smoke and took in my surroundings.
I heard the shower running.
My eyes blinked into focus; the sound of water stopped. She walked in, wrapped in towel, with another twisted over her hair in that way that all women seem to do.
She scowled at me when our eyes met. Bending down, she snatched the cigarette out of my lips and dropped it into a glass of water beside her bed.
The hiss of burning tobacco kissing water hurt my head.
Fucking sake.
She gave me the silent treatment as I pulled myself from the floor. I needed to piss and was desperate for something stimulating to get the sludge in my veins moving again.
When I wobbled back in, she was getting dressed. And she wasn’t exactly shy about it. In fact, she dressed in a manner which can only be described as angrily.
I sat on the edge of a bed I didn’t sleep in. And tried to think of a way to start a conversation.
“Is there coffee?”
She ignored me.
“I guess not,” I said to a freckled back.
After filling her bra boobily, she turned to me. “Why do you always have to be such an asshole?”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“What do you mean? What did I do?”
“Well, you insisted that we stop at a liquor store after the restaurant where you embarrassed me by trying to buy a bottle of whiskey with your library card. I ended up buying it for you, just to get you out of the store. I barely got you up to the room when you decided that you absolutely needed to pee off the balcony to ‘mark your territory.’ And I didn’t appreciate your asking me if I wanted to shake it for you.”
Okay, sake. We should probably have a conversation.
“When I got you back in the room, you continued to drink. Then you tried fighting yourself in the mirror. Thankfully, you were too drunk to land a punch. When I was able to distract you from your reflection, you freaked out, screaming ‘They found us!’ and crawled under the desk where you promptly puked into the trash can and then passed out.”
Huh.
Compared to other nights, it didn’t sound so bad. No police. No blood or other injuries beyond the usual aching organs and pounding head. I still had my phone. And wallet. That apparently has a library card in it.
Who knew?
Overall, I considered it a win. She, however, had a different opinion.
She sternly cautioned me that it is nearly that metaphorical closing time. So I should get my shit together before the time runs out. Because she knows that I’m not really writing. Not anything real, anyway. And apparently, she views that as a criminal waste of talent.
Everything she said held merit; I could offer no defense.
I listened as she vented while continuing to dress. She gathered the last of her things before leaving. And I feared that this would be the final checkout.
A gentle kiss on the forehead. The parting lamentations that it could have been a different night, had I only remained in control.
Then she was out the door.
The silence of the room echoed so hard it hurt; her words were getting under my skin.
Thankfully, there was enough Irish left in that bottle she bought to put some hair back on this dog.
I zombied my way back to my shitty boulevard apartment. Sat in front of a dirty typewriter with a broken MLK view. Lit a crumpled cigarette.
And then I began to write something real…