It was just another Michigan Sunday dirtbag night. One itching from the bite of hours left unsupervised. And one thirsty for the familiar refreshment of dirty Guinness pours.
The free shots of tequila were an unexpected addition. But then, so was she. And while fermented worm juice is not particularly my favorite way to rot my gut, she is still my favorite way to break my heart.
So I couldn’t refuse the offer.
And then I kept drinking long after she disappeared back into the night.
Maybe that’s why I woke up in the stinking confines of a concrete parking garage. That urban surrogate standing in for the depravity of more familiar Old Town bushes.
But at least it was a change of scenery.
Not that the details matter; not much really seems to matter anymore. Because some nights, you just can’t get drunk enough.
But there is often only booze left to fill the night—everything else eventually leaves. So varying proofs stand in to fill the tragic gaps of space and time. Because 🦊s tend to get lost when there aren’t any airplanes around left to fight. Which is kind of a tragedy. Because they are a hell of a lot easier to understand than most people.
So I was left slamming down the rounds. Crawling dirty up East Michigan Avenue. Deftly dodging all the circling WEE–WOOs. And all the disenfranchised street creatures. Because who the fuck even carries spare change around anymore?
And $.75 seemed an oddly specific amount to request.
Too many rounds in. And everything still fucking hurt.
Maybe it was because the silhouette of a hotel that once housed our happiness beamed bright above more dirt bag haunts. That capital avenue pub where they take you as you are when you stumble in past midnight. And where penises are often drawn in Irish foam in place of more traditional shamrocks.
And somehow, that substitution seems somehow reasonable.
Because you’re gonna get fucked one way or another.
But suddenly, I saw a friendly face. One unexpectedly strolling up out of the grime as I stood with a leather jacket back against the outside wall, gunning the first of too many smokes.
She was shocked to see me; I was embarrassed to be seen. But we hugged, anyway—I had nearly forgotten how good she smells.
It was all awkward sidewalk chit-chat as I finished my cigarette.
For whatever reason, the universe decided to grace me with the random opportunity to drink with a pretty girl. The one who used to serve me dirty Old Town pours of her own, back before she decided to steak out a different kind of house.
She knows a lot of my secrets; I know a couple of hers. And while I will forever recklessly document mine, hers I keep safe. Because shot glass promises are still sacred, even amongst 517 dirtbags.
As embarrassing as it is to admit, I once wrote a short story. About her freckles. Because seeing them always made me happy for some reason. On those nervous nights stumbling into her bar. With the fresh stink of airplanes clinging to my skin.
I’m not at all ashamed to admit that she was often there when I needed a transition away from the brutality of the ramp. She was there for me that terrible night when our airplane fell out of the sky; she was there for me the night I was alone, and scared, inside a strange city I’ve always kind of hated.
She instinctively knew the validity of having to occasionally blow off some steam. Because she works her ass off, too. And often provides a sanctuary far more healing than just the temporary numbness of another shot poured. That shit is exhausting, too. So I always made sure to tip extra for the smiles.
I guess I didn’t realize just how much I fucking missed her. Until she was in my arms again.
That simple hug is most likely what caused me to wake up under the shadow of splintered capital city concrete. Because in the absence of more adulting influences, 🦊 s often fade into disaster. Not because of some deeply ingrained compulsion to injure themselves. But because their solitary nature is forever in conflict with their loneliness.
We hugged goodbye well after the clock crawled past one; she disappeared back into The City.
I will just have to trust that the universe will nudge our paths back into crossing.
Because I just can’t fucking shake those freckles…
