nostalgia is a motherfucker."You want to get some food?" It sounded like she was interrogating me, spitting the question out as if I had no other alternative but to say that I did.
I was up for the challenge. "No, not really, I had a sandwich a little bit ago." That's right, there won't be any of that. Not tonight, maybe not ever again. I knew where she wanted to go get food, there was a little pub about 15 minutes west that served the best spinach artichoke dip around, maybe in the whole world.
I wasn't up for any of that pub-foolery because I was cited again for public drunkenness last Friday. The last time that happened I swore it was the last time it would happen. This time though, will be the last time, I'm sure. Then here Julie was, pestering me to go to the bar again. It hadn't even been a week, I needed at least that long to wallow in my self-hatred and listen to some Death Cab and Elliot Smith in the dark.
"If you really want, we could go grab some ice cream, I don't know." I thought a compromise would be good, she knew I didn't want to go anywhere with cheap booze. If I wanted any hooch, I could always nip off the emergency bottle I kept in the closet. Tucked under a pile of dirty clothes and some books I never read from freshman year, I always kept a fifth of whiskey. If I drank it, I replaced it. It happened to be Jim Beam this time, it was on sale when I drank the old emergency bottle and I had a few dollars at the time so I didn't mind going all out for my secret stash. I wouldn't say that it was an expensive buy, though it could just as easily have been something better like Jack Daniels or (god forbid) Old Crowe or something even more vile.
I liked to keep whiskey on hand in case of an emergency because it was the end all to soothe the mind. Strong, and yet it still had a decent taste, it was a great way to catch myself before I ever fell too far into the arms of depression. Drink the whole bottle and pass out, maybe I forget whatever it was that bothered me. Too often I'd remember too much of it.
"I was thinking we should get some spin-dip, we haven't for a while" Finally she says it, I hate how every time she wants something she never just comes right out with it. I roll my eyes and toss my head back. Staring at the ceiling I take a few moments to consider my next words.
"I'm not going to any goddamned bars tonight." I over-emphasized the 'I' because I didn't really care if she went by herself. She should just go get the fucking dip and leave me out of it.
As soon as I heard her pause I felt bad. I knew her eyes were trailing down to the floor and then the corners of her mouth would follow. I used to think that face was so cute, like a child confused because they've been told 'no.' That face still is cute, in the right light, but it makes me feel so guilty anymore. She's probably just trying to cheer me up, she knows I could probably go for a couple drinks right now.
I stayed quiet for a couple seconds, looking at the floor. She knew I would go because of the long sigh I managed to hiss out through the phone.
"I need a few minutes to get ready." She said before I could even tell her I'd go. You spend enough time with someone, they can read you better than you can read yourself. We ended the call and I knew she didn't really need any time to get ready. She'd just show up in shorts and a hoodie, if I was lucky she'd be wearing shoes instead of flip flops, but I wasn't normally lucky. 'Bum-chic' I called it.
I slipped into a pair of my own flip flops because it was too warm for May. It felt like the middle of summer. It was cooling down now that the sun had gone down, but I wasn't worried about a jacket in this kind of weather. I drove over and sat in my car with the headlights off. I'd do that sometimes, it calmed me down before I had to deal with whatever problems I had. Just listen to the sound of my radio and the calm, dull vibrations of the engine.
The night was clear and calm, I could make out a couple stars as I looked up into the darkening purple sky. Such a beautiful time of year, with the green coming back on the trees and the long days and, as was happening more often, longer nights. Forget about that citation from last week, the quiet night made me want to celebrate. Celebrate the fleeting hold I had on my youth, I could only act like a fool kid for so long. I wasn't a sheep looking for a shepherd to show me the way to live my life, I was a wolf looking for prey.
She finally sidled up and into the car, right into an awkward exchange of 'Hey' and 'Hi' followed by some silence before I turned the radio on and sped down her street. I could tell that she was excited to see me again, she denied it. Though I suspect if pressed for the same, I would follow her example. The ride was short and uneventful. School was out, so parking was no longer at a premium as the mostly student demographic went home for the summer.
We walked in and I was leading the way by a couple paces. That kind of subdued body language was something she was sure to pick up on. Even if I wasn't entirely into the idea of going to a bar before the ink on my last citation was dry, I could act like I was. A few familiar faces were speckled across the room but I ignored them. I went straight back and found a booth that was unoccupied and sufficiently away from the part of the place that got crowded later in the evening.
I catch shit about it, especially because I like to refer to it as a beer-o-colada myself, but Blue Moon with an orange slice is awesome. It certainly doesn't hurt when it's on special. "How've you been?" I asked, looking this time for more depth in the reply. Julie started running down what it was she'd be doing, so I stopped her and asked again. Trying to confuse me and dodge the question might have worked on someone else, but you can't shit a shitter, as they say.
She paused. I wished she'd missed me more. She was doing fine, and I never know what that means. Sometimes fine is fine, other times it's bad or even good. It's an ambiguous monster with thousands of meanings, thousands of degrees of confusion. That's fine. She could avoid eye contact and answer my questions however she wanted. I'd decided against playing those games that night. It'd only serve to cramp my style.
Another beer. Then my first shot of the night. And another beer. I was drinking too fast, I started to panic. I always had nightmares that I'd turn into my father, and it was those times when I could stop myself and think about how I was drinking too fast that my fears would surface. I couldn't turn into him, I'd promised myself long ago that if that happened I would end it. Vague at the time of the promise, vague at the time of recollection, I did know that I wouldn't end up like him. Unloved, unloving, irresponsible.
Sometimes that panic I'd get would turn to more drinking. Heavier and faster. Sometimes it would make me stop. I never wanted to be a cripple, like my father. His crutch was alcohol, I preferred to stand on my own feet.
I decided then that it was time to stop, time to evaluate myself, time to go back to my original plan of depressing music in a dark room. I got up, tossed a crumpled twenty on the table and said "We're leaving."
Like I said, if you spend enough time with someone, they know you better than you know yourself. Julie never voiced it, but she understood somehow what was going on in my head. She tried to make me feel better, but she couldn't pull it off, at least not in a bar. There was a time in my life when I answered every question with a "Let's do another shot!" even if I didn't know what the question was. I don't think I knew what the question was that night, but whatever it may have been, as soon as I walked outside I knew the answer was "Not tonight."
