Staring at the mirror, Nick asked his reflection “What am I doing with my life?”
The man looking back at Nick made no attempt to respond. Nick wasn't expecting a response, he didn't want one, he wanted this stranger to keep quiet. Nick had almost asked the mirror “Where have the years gone?” but he decided it was too much of a loaded question, decided that if the stranger in the mirror were to answer any question it would be that one. The stranger in the mirror was practically begging to answer that question, and just so long as Nick didn't ask, maybe the stranger wouldn't tell.
The stranger's hair was longer than Nick remembered, shaggier too. The scars he could see were more familiar. The right knee still bore the memory of the freshman year 40-Challenge. Nick shook his head as he thought of all those empty or broken bottles of malt liquor, empty or broken and some painted with his blood. A hospital bed was Nick's least favorite place to wake up. He wished he could forget some things this mirror man made him remember.
And yet, the person looking back at Nick had some sweet memories held in those scars too. A mixture of chemicals, whether it was the right mix or the wrong, came flashing to mind when he looked at the scar just left of center on his forehead. He had to look close to see it clearly, to bring back the passion he'd felt that night with his first love when they stole off together from a party and he tripped and fell down some stairs. He could almost feel the blood flowing down his forehead obscuring his vision, but still he saw clearly the slender hand extended to help him back on his feet.
As he leaned in closer he could see wrinkles around his eyes. Wrinkles on the bags under those blue and gray and bloodshot eyes, the bags matched the baggage those eyes had seen him acquire. Nick thought of those scars and wrinkles in the mirror as mile markers on life's road trip. Some acting as a trophy permanently etched onto the surface of his skin, others were a mere barometer of his depravity. Every time he stopped to look in the mirror, Nick had to catch his breath. Every wrinkle or mark on his body had its own story to tell and that story was getting longer every day.
Looking at the stranger in the mirror, Nick wished he could stop and catch his youth. Field it like a major league shortstop, and then instead of throwing it home, he'd just take it home and keep it forever. He'd keep it safe. If he didn't catch it soon, though, he feared he may never. He looked one last time closely into the eyes in the mirror. There was a hint of a darkening storm in those foamy bloodshot orbs, a hint of storms to come, ones that he'd weathered and those constantly swirling inside.
“What am I doing with my life?” Nick asked again. He looked on, waiting for the reply that finally came“The only thing you can: living.”
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
a nightcap after all
"One knows so well the popular idea of health. The English country-gentleman galloping after a fox - the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable." -Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance
There's only one real way to end a night: the nightcap. After the excesses of an evening, there's only those drinks after the drinks that can help calm you down. In this "behave yourself" and "live in moderation" age it's nice to know that there are still people around to help push that high over the edge at the end of the evening. It's almost necessary to find kindred spirits willing to push harder and go farther than conventions decide.
It was a night full of well gin and tonic and girls with too much baggage. Sometime in their mid-twenties, women pick up that second suitcase worth of emotional baggage, they get those 'serious' issues. The issues that make it seem like a good idea to casually mention their last relationship and the friend they brought out that night that just had a baby and "hasn't been out in like, forever". If you're looking for a good time, these girls know how to have it. At least they did know how to have it a few years ago, then they got that bug in them that makes it seem like meaningless hookup after meaningless hookup isn't the best way to live their lives. These are the girls you know are a bad idea, the kind of girl that is jealous of her friend with the ring on her finger but she'll never tell you that. These girls want the house and kids, but they don't really want to give up the good times they have when they're out with the gals. They're torn between what they want and what they think they want. It all gets jumbled up and swirled into a shit-storm of conflicted feelings and emotions mixed with vodka and cranberry drinks or plastic cups filled with whatever she thinks is the "coolest" sounding beer on tap.
These girls are going through a kind of second puberty, where they're not sure if they should have broken up with their last boyfriend. They doubt themselves in new ways than when they were in their teens, but they're still not full-blown women ready to roll and deal with the real world even though they've been running around in it for the better part of the last decade. These girls will go to an after-party and drink a drink or two, but they only occasionally dip deep into their memories and re-live those glorious college days where they drank late into the night. The simple fact of the matter is that they know tomorrow morning will be hell if they stay out till 5 drinking in some smoky apartment a couple blocks from the bar they just drank their fill at. The initial pacing of the evening doesn't quite work out when there's an extra couple hours worth of drinking to factor into the equation.
"Come on, we're going to an after-party" I said. "She's a nice enough girl, everyone's got baggage" I thought to myself. She said "Uhm, hold on, I have to see if my friends want to go." I ordered my second last call drink and grabbed her arm as I told her "All right, but don't take too long because I don't know the way and we've got to follow my buddy". The Friday night air and the summer wind was blowing just right on the patio so my gin soaked, tobacco infused breath didn't smell so bad, of course this girl wanted to head out for a nightcap.
Her friends wanted to go. "Of course they do" I thought, "Her chubby friend wants to push her luck and see if she can land a winner tonight instead of the usual 'last call' crowd" It was too bad that the after-party we were headed to was at my gay friend's newest beau's place and there would be guys, but not the kind that would throw her any bones.
After a lengthy discussion about how I was perfectly fine and able to drive, followed by two trips to the bathroom, we finally headed off to location B. Heading to location B is crucial in making it a good night. I always feel like I'm taking the party with me whenever I get people to go somewhere else. That has a lot to do with the fact that I think the universe revolves around me and the only good parties are those I attend, but I'm not here to judge myself.
I climbed out of the car and up a long flight of stairs into a well manicured apartment complete with a fresh bottle of rum sitting atop the dining room table. The rum wasn't the best way to top off a belly full of gin and tonics, but at least this was Bacardi and not Banker's Club like the gin I'd been drinking all night. It's not my choice of rum, but I never choose rum anymore. It seems to choose me.
There was rum but no shot glasses. The experienced night-capper knows that shot glasses are unnecessary and usually only wind up making spills or getting broken, so I grabbed the bottle and cracked the cap open and took a long swig. Those girls never made it, I guess I took a turn took quick while following my friend and lost them. It wasn't a big loss and the 6 text messages I found on my phone the next morning asking for directions were easily ignorable. Text messages are easily ignorable, technology is great.
The nightcap is a fickle mistress. Sometimes it's the start of a short-term romance, other times it ends with me face down on the dining room table in a stranger's apartment. I passed out, bottle in hand, and was shot back to consciousness by being repeated slaps to my face by a gay man. It could have gone either way, really. There could have been a romantic encounter with a girl that threw her name at me a couple times and I should have (but never actually) caught it. Like I said, the nightcap is a fickle mistress.
There's only one real way to end a night: the nightcap. After the excesses of an evening, there's only those drinks after the drinks that can help calm you down. In this "behave yourself" and "live in moderation" age it's nice to know that there are still people around to help push that high over the edge at the end of the evening. It's almost necessary to find kindred spirits willing to push harder and go farther than conventions decide.
It was a night full of well gin and tonic and girls with too much baggage. Sometime in their mid-twenties, women pick up that second suitcase worth of emotional baggage, they get those 'serious' issues. The issues that make it seem like a good idea to casually mention their last relationship and the friend they brought out that night that just had a baby and "hasn't been out in like, forever". If you're looking for a good time, these girls know how to have it. At least they did know how to have it a few years ago, then they got that bug in them that makes it seem like meaningless hookup after meaningless hookup isn't the best way to live their lives. These are the girls you know are a bad idea, the kind of girl that is jealous of her friend with the ring on her finger but she'll never tell you that. These girls want the house and kids, but they don't really want to give up the good times they have when they're out with the gals. They're torn between what they want and what they think they want. It all gets jumbled up and swirled into a shit-storm of conflicted feelings and emotions mixed with vodka and cranberry drinks or plastic cups filled with whatever she thinks is the "coolest" sounding beer on tap.
These girls are going through a kind of second puberty, where they're not sure if they should have broken up with their last boyfriend. They doubt themselves in new ways than when they were in their teens, but they're still not full-blown women ready to roll and deal with the real world even though they've been running around in it for the better part of the last decade. These girls will go to an after-party and drink a drink or two, but they only occasionally dip deep into their memories and re-live those glorious college days where they drank late into the night. The simple fact of the matter is that they know tomorrow morning will be hell if they stay out till 5 drinking in some smoky apartment a couple blocks from the bar they just drank their fill at. The initial pacing of the evening doesn't quite work out when there's an extra couple hours worth of drinking to factor into the equation.
"Come on, we're going to an after-party" I said. "She's a nice enough girl, everyone's got baggage" I thought to myself. She said "Uhm, hold on, I have to see if my friends want to go." I ordered my second last call drink and grabbed her arm as I told her "All right, but don't take too long because I don't know the way and we've got to follow my buddy". The Friday night air and the summer wind was blowing just right on the patio so my gin soaked, tobacco infused breath didn't smell so bad, of course this girl wanted to head out for a nightcap.
Her friends wanted to go. "Of course they do" I thought, "Her chubby friend wants to push her luck and see if she can land a winner tonight instead of the usual 'last call' crowd" It was too bad that the after-party we were headed to was at my gay friend's newest beau's place and there would be guys, but not the kind that would throw her any bones.
After a lengthy discussion about how I was perfectly fine and able to drive, followed by two trips to the bathroom, we finally headed off to location B. Heading to location B is crucial in making it a good night. I always feel like I'm taking the party with me whenever I get people to go somewhere else. That has a lot to do with the fact that I think the universe revolves around me and the only good parties are those I attend, but I'm not here to judge myself.
I climbed out of the car and up a long flight of stairs into a well manicured apartment complete with a fresh bottle of rum sitting atop the dining room table. The rum wasn't the best way to top off a belly full of gin and tonics, but at least this was Bacardi and not Banker's Club like the gin I'd been drinking all night. It's not my choice of rum, but I never choose rum anymore. It seems to choose me.
There was rum but no shot glasses. The experienced night-capper knows that shot glasses are unnecessary and usually only wind up making spills or getting broken, so I grabbed the bottle and cracked the cap open and took a long swig. Those girls never made it, I guess I took a turn took quick while following my friend and lost them. It wasn't a big loss and the 6 text messages I found on my phone the next morning asking for directions were easily ignorable. Text messages are easily ignorable, technology is great.
The nightcap is a fickle mistress. Sometimes it's the start of a short-term romance, other times it ends with me face down on the dining room table in a stranger's apartment. I passed out, bottle in hand, and was shot back to consciousness by being repeated slaps to my face by a gay man. It could have gone either way, really. There could have been a romantic encounter with a girl that threw her name at me a couple times and I should have (but never actually) caught it. Like I said, the nightcap is a fickle mistress.
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