Par for the course
Melissa drove me back to my place following our “lunch” together at The Surly Snail. It was close to noon at the time and she ate, but for me that’s a little too early for consuming actual food. Besides, I’m not interested in eating something that I’ve just spent the last few hours working on. I don’t imagine the postman chooses hiking to help him unwind after a day of work.
Eating is not something I actually do for pleasure anymore. If one were to look at me they would naturally assume that I was in denial regarding that particular claim. But it’s true. I’m fat because I drink a lot of beer and you’re not likely to come across me exerting any energy unnecessarily. At this point, I eat because I get hungry and it’s kind of a mandatory thing that you have to do to stay alive. The treadmill routine is for pretty much the same reason.
There are obvious benefits to be had from both. While I am fat, I am not morbidly obese fat and I would prefer to avoid that if I am able. Just as the functionals are aghast at the spectre of the dysfunctional alcoholics, the sight of humungous, quad-druple chinned slobs riding around in motorized scooters can send me spiralling towards a potential anxiety attack.
These unfortunate bastards wear diabetic socks and sandals even in midwinter because they can’t squeeze their fat feet and swollen ankles into shoes anymore. That can require a strenuous physical effort for some people already, particularly when age comes into play. Sadly though, if you’re so fat that you can’t even walk anymore then I suppose bending over to tie your shoes has been rendered entirely non-negotiable.
At first glance you’re taken by that shiny, waxen complexion and the exaggerated facial features that bear resemble to a glowing jack-o-lantern. Although it is frightening, you don’t get that sense of menace that the carved Halloween pumpkin is supposed to project. No, you see tired resignation and a sorrowful look of shame for what has become of them.
I suppose there are some who do actually suffer from glandular disorders or other unfortunate medical conditions and my heart does go out to them. However, I’m not buying into that “big boned” argument that’s so often made by others. That case is even lazier than they appear to be.
I feel the very same way about diabetes claims. It’s like that age old riddle, which came first? The chicken or the egg? It’s not the diabetes that made you fat, it’s the fat that enabled the diabetes! You should have thought about that before you stopped caring about what you were eating!
It’s not unlike the risk that an alcoholic takes with cirrhosis of the liver. Or the lung cancer potential for smokers. Being a fat alcoholic who also smokes, I was fully aware of these health risks when I chose the lifestyle and I think they must’ve known about the possible outcome of their choices too.
Sadly, I do realize that at its very root, obesity is also an addiction. It’s yet another in a seemingless endless parade of toxic habits that’s merely a different flavour than my own. Hell, one of the main reasons that I eat is to coat my stomach so that I can drink alcohol without losing control. I suppose they’re at that dysfunctional stage of being fat where salads and diet beverages are no longer even considered. I guess mozzarella sticks and extra sour cream are like “shooters” for the obese.
I like to try and pretend that my life doesn’t revolve around my addictions but I know that they do. But it’s still nice to play make believe once in a while and there are things that you have to do regardless. It doesn’t even matter if you are going to actually enjoy it or even receive any sort of compensation for having done so. It’s not unlike when I was married and I would sit through a film that my wife chose for us . If I wanted to remain married to her then I was expected to tolerate the film and I expect she did the same for me. The fact that I no longer have to watch movies that I don’t enjoy is yet another unexpected perk of divorce!
I had determined the day before that it was time to change my bedding. I had just recently purchased a new queen sized mattress and it had been suggested to me that I should let it breathe for a few days, as it had been vacuum packed and shipped in a box. When I first received the shipment, I was shocked that a mattress of that size could be shipped in such a seemingly modest looking box. As I brought the box into my foyer I was no longer in wonderment. It was heavy as one would expect.
Fortunately for me, Dan hadn’t left for work yet and he helped me get the mattress up the three flights of stairs to my bedroom. It was apparent while struggling up those stairs that there was no way I would have been able to do that by myself and I told my roommate how grateful I was for his help. Unlike Blanche Dubois, I actually knew Dan, but I did rely on his kindness nevertheless.
Although we are good friends, I didn’t want to ask Dan to help with replacing the new mattress with the older one. I felt that I could probably do that myself and he’d already helped with the most physically demanding part already. There’s also something weird about having close friends take note of some of the nastier stains on your old mattress now that the old cover has been removed and it is currently laying before them naked and exposed. It was my daughter Crystal’s mattress before it belonged to me and I couldn’t account for some of those stains myself. There are some mysteries that you just need to leave unresolved and I wasn’t inclined to ask an Ouija board for answers.
Although it was a mighty struggle to swap the mattresses, I was proud that I was able to do so. It was on this day while trying to properly fit it with a new cover and bed sheets where I found the task to be particularly maddening. For a few moments I actually missed having my ex-wife around. It has been well over 30 years since we last changed sheets together and I don’t think I’m guilty of being misogynistic by suggesting that women are just plain better at this sort of thing than men. Again, I can’t speak to gay folks or those who are indecisive regarding their sex and/or bed sheets in general. I know I’m not good at it.
“No, not like that! What are you, stupid? It’s the wrong end…”
I imagined Sharon’s voice from across the bed. I would’ve gladly sat through a woman’s movie with her on this day if only to get these cover sheets adjusted properly. It was even more rigorous than the physical labour that I’d had to endure at work earlier that morning. Mind you, I’d drank a couple beers and smoked a few cigarettes since then.
Right in the midst of this mattress mayhem, my phone began to ring downstairs.
“No. No, whoever it is can wait.” I blurted out angrily to no one.
I went directly back to work but now the missed call began to fester in my brain. Who is it? Is it Dad? If it’s my father and I don’t get it, I get sad that he thinks I don’t care about him anymore and I’m just not answering my phone on purpose. It’s not like I don’t want to hear another one of his rambling stories that I’ve already heard a thousand times before and, not surprisingly, has still never reached a satisfying conclusion. Wait a minute, I don’t actually want to.
On more than one occasion I am guilty of deliberately not answering the phone when I know it’s my father calling. Particularly when I am working or in the midst of an important discussion. A couple of years ago I would answer it immediately under any circumstances because of his declining health and you never really know when it’s going to be the last time you’ll hear his voice. The last time that I did answer it at work went something like this.
“Dad? Hey, what’s up?”
“Christopher…How’d you know it was me?”
“It says Dad on the phone when it’s ringing and so I know it’s you.”
My Dad has always been a joker and, like anybody, some jokes just aren’t that funny. My Dad hasn’t always been senile though and now I can’t be sure if he’s making a bad joke or not.
“Are you at work, son?”
“I am, Dad. Is everything alright?”
“Oh ya.” He’ll usually continue with the jokes “I just got back from a jog.”
“Hey listen, can I call you back in a few minutes. I’m still at work.”
“Oh ya. You can call me anytime, son. Day or night.”
It’s the thought that counts but there are absolutely no assurances that he’ll pick up the phone. In fact, most times you will not get an answer. But he did say I could call him back, right?
“Okay Dad, I love you. I’ll call you back in a few minutes..”
“Did you see what Trump said today? When the hell is somebody going to shoot this corrupt bastard? If you’re going to be stupid enough to continue with this goddamn 2nd amendment bullshit then you might as well use your guns for something positive..You know what the 2nd amendment is don’t you, Christopher?”
I do, Dad. I do because I am a 63 year old man and I am no longer going to elementary school. Do you know that we’re both Canadian regardless and that I told you that I was still working..That’s right, Dad, I have a job now because I’m no longer going to elementary school.
Of course I don’t actually say those things to him but it is so frustrating. I have to be firmer than I’d like at times.
“Dad, I’m at work. I gotta go. I love you.” I said, my finger hovering just over the hang up button.
If the next thing out of his mouth wasn’t indicative of a goodbye sentiment then it would have to be demonstrated abruptly from my end. Happily, he received the sense of urgency I was trying to convey.
“Okay, son. I love you too.”
There is always that slim possibility that when the phone rings it’s going to be that pertinent news that you absolutely could not afford to miss and now the universe is going to collapse into itself as a result. Of course it never is and if it was, then I suppose I would take solace in the fact that the entire universe is going down with me.
I resent being made to feel uncomfortable for declining a call. It’s my call and I’ll answer it if I want to. Technology has made exchanging information so readily accessible that we so often forget that we can still choose to decline receiving it. I don’t care if somebody wants to talk with me right now! Maybe I don’t want to talk to them at this minute! I had made this bedding the foremost priority and, goddamnit, I was going to do that!
I was literally gasping for breath when I staggered back down the stairs to finally see who may have called. I flopped into a comfortable swivel chair at the kitchen table with the sort of triumphant exhaustion reserved for marathon runners and warriors at the final end of a gruelling ordeal. Both the body and the mind were pushed beyond unimaginable limits and there was a physical pain, the companion piece to the internal trauma that would forever linger. A proud senior moment when I could brag to others about “doing it myself” and receive some sort of impressive acknowledgement..but probably not..Although at that very moment, I did take a shameful pride in knowing that those blubbery eyesores in their motorized scooters could not have undertaken such a task. At least I could still do that!
I quickly realized how petty that thought was though. Just because I’m an out of shape divorced man that doesn’t mean I have to be spiteful. Addicts do seem to be quite adept at pointing out another addict’s unfortunate weakness in a lame attempt to deflect attention away from their own. “Sure I stole your rent money and used it to buy crack! It’s not like I got drunk and hit your kid with my car!”
That’s kind of why I am dismissive of the “cry for help” defense which others use to excuse abnormal behaviour. If somebody sincerely wanted help with something then you would think the very last thing that they would choose to do is try to keep this need a secret. If they’re just too ashamed or extremely shy to begin with, then that’s just another weakness entirely. Ultimately, it is always going to eventually come down to the individual’s ability to help themselves. If they are unable to do that then they will inevitably continue to suffer until they are confronted with the certainty of their own death. Once again, my man, Charles Darwin!
Perhaps my proclivities are an extension of my vanity. I say this because I don’t really care what others think about my penchant for cigarettes and booze. I honestly enjoy them both, despite the full knowledge that it makes me less desirable for potential mating purposes and they’re slowly killing me. Considering that we all die in the end regardless, we might as well enjoy the ride. Although I do hope that I can be confident without being overly vain about it.
Once the huffing and puffing stopped I figured it would be a safe time to check my phone to see who had called. I have to let the high blood pressure subside first because I don’t want the caller I.D. setting into motion the possibility of a stroke or heart attack. The caller had been my daughter Melissa. Earlier in the day she had offered me a ride to Red’s as she was going to take the kids to the YMCA anyway. She had probably just called to see if that was still my intention.
“Are you still going to Red’s?” she asked immediately, dispensing with telephone etiquette and its anticipated formalities.
Melissa is more than a half century younger than my father and so she can immediately recognize that the call would be coming from my phone, suggesting the likelihood of her father being at the other end.
“Ya. I can be ready in ten minutes.”
“Try to make it five.” she insisted “We’re right around the corner.”
“No worries.” I said, disconnecting and knowing full well that I would still have at least ten minutes because Mel was always late.
I sometimes have to restrain myself from getting too angry with her tardiness as I often forget she has been diagnosed with ADHD. When and who diagnosed her is unknown to me and I am admittedly dubious regarding this information as strong cases can be presented from both sides. Perhaps she’s been offered this diagnostic scenario via a Youtube influencer and has decided upon this condition for herself. Then there is always the other possibility that I was drunk at the time and I’d forgotten that information ever having been relayed to me. Either way, I was grateful for the ride to Red’s along with my grandchildren.
“Grampa, why don’t you just drink at your own restaurant?” my eldest granddaughter Jessica asked.
A perfectly legitimate question, I thought to myself. She was at that awkward teenage stage in her life, the half child who also appeared very clearly to be a young woman. I worried about her the most because I had formally been a young blooded teenage boy at one time myself and was only too aware of how other teenage boys behaved towards their female counterparts.
It wasn’t until I fathered two daughters myself when I began to appreciate how truly uncomfortable adolescence could be for a young woman. I would sometimes get embarrassed for the entire male population of the world when I heard about some of the reprehensible conduct that boys would display around my daughters. The worst part was the knowledge that I was once one of them!
I begrudgingly resigned myself to a life of celibacy some 20 years ago when it was becoming obvious that the idea of continued sexual relevance was ill-conceived. There was no way I would be able to continue with this torrid pace of drinking and smoking while still entertaining any possible notions of maintaining any kind of meaningful sexual relationship. Trust me fellas, the performance level goes a long time before your ego ever does. Best to get out while the getting’s good!
Jessica was seated in the back of the car and I turned to her with a grin.
“Honey, I don’t enjoy drinking at work because I can’t really relax. I know all of the people that work there and many of the customers too. The last thing I wanna do is talk about work when I’m not working..”
Jessie nodded and replied “I get it”.
At 16 years old, I believe that she did get it. Jessica was a remarkably gifted sketch artist and painter at such a tender young age and her creativity resonated with me on a very deep level. My own daughter, her mother, was also very artistic but it had proven too difficult to possibly work together on potential projects. Again, I’ve always felt that the objectivity would be compromised by the immediate father/daughter emotional conflict and the unfortunate fact that, because she resembled my ex-wife, I would never be comfortable to cede control of my creative thoughts to her.
“I wanna go to the westauwant too!” Lina, the four year old yelled out.
I chuckled at her pronunciation of the word “restaurant” as it always reminded me of my own kids when they were little. I turned to her and gently growled, “Rrrrrrr..Try that. Rrrrrrr-estaurant!”
Apollina grinned and gave it an effort. She sneered and curled her lip like a tiny female Elvis.
“Rrrrrrr..Rrr..Westauwant!”
“Good enough.” I said with an appreciative nod and turned back to the windshield.
I wondered if “westauwant” was something commonly spoken by every single english speaking child in the world at one time because it seemed to me that might be the case. Hmm, looks like “w” comes before “r” in the developmental stages of the english alphabet.
I was suddenly made to feel uneasy by my granddaughter’s declared desire to go to the restaurant. Not because I don’t enjoy having them around but because, essentially, they shouldn’t be around me in that particular situation. I know my daughter quite well and I know that she takes to her beers just like her old man and the forefathers that came before him. The pub lifestyle has been a common element in our family history.
I had often made reference to this by off-handedly telling the girls of this when they were young. While I may have appeared joking at the time, I kind of wasn’t.
“You get three specific things from your Irish heritage, girls.” I would tell them, “You’ll get nice skin, healthy hair and chronic alcoholism. Like the song says, two out of three ain’t bad..”
Even in their childhood innocence they were able to find optimism in this dire revelation.
“And we also get to have a parade!” Melissa would proudly announce, beaming with Irish pride.
Ah, yes, you also get a parade..There’s a strange irony in the wild celebration of a debilitating addiction. I guess there is truth in that old luck of the Irish legacy. Their cry for help was so loud and boisterous that the other cultures of the world became jealous and embraced the concept of collective alcoholism along with them on St.Patrick’s day!
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that having beers with my daughter is one of my favourite things in life. However, she is at an age in her own journey where it can’t be allowed to become one of hers at this time. There is definitely no glory in being a functioning alcoholic and there have been numerous opportunities for success that have been squandered due to the path that I chose. That is to say, they were wasted because I was wasted! At this point, there is a sense of contentment in accepting both who and what I am. However, I am often afraid that Melissa perceives me as being happy. A sense of contentment is not happiness. I gave up on that pipe dream decades ago.
If there is bliss to be found on this earth then I hope she has better luck than me and is able to find it. I’m pretty sure you won’t find it in a bar, being already well aware of the pitfalls the pub experience can lead to. What may be a fun,family outing for some might appear to be an unflattering and cruel family cycle to others. You say tomato, I say tomato..
“No,Lena. We can’t go with grandpa to the restaurant. You have a swimming lesson and Jessie and I have Yoga.”
Although the 4 year old pouted and whined her displeasure to the discomfort of everybody else’s eardrums, I was relieved to take the trade-off. The shrill piercing of Apollina’s melodramatic last minute appeal reminded me of how grateful I was for being the grandpa. I have the good fortune of being able to escape this sort of infantile behaviour whenever I want to. As much as I love kids there is also the part of me that loves the fact that I don’t have to always be around them anymore.
As we pulled into the parking lot of Red’s I could see Richard, the homeless barfly, standing by the entrance. You couldn’t avoid making contact with him as he had stationed himself directly in front of the entrance to the pub and you would literally have to walk around him in order to get inside. It was almost as if he was defying people to ignore his plight for free beer.
Melissa knew who Richard was and encouraged her kids to try and not stare. Perhaps she felt that the sight of this derelict soul would scare the kids. But knowing Melissa, it may have prompted a discussion that she’d rather have with Apollina at a later time.
“Well I’m pretty sure they didn’t hire him as a doorman..” I muttered aloud.
“Aww, that’s so sad.” Jessie lamented.
“It makes me sad to know that his pathetic bullshit makes you sad.” I muttered in a subdued, yet openly hostile, tone.
I opened the door and kissed my daughter before turning to get out. I leaned back inward to Jessica after getting to my feet. At 17, she should’ve already been plenty aware of the laws of cause and effect. However, we now live in a culture where empathy has become so extreme that has come to be meaningless. It means nothing because people are no longer held accountable for anything.
“ You can be sad for him if you want, Jessica. But, really, you should remember to be glad for yourself because that’s not you. He’s just trying to make people feel sorry for him so that they’ll buy him beer.”
Jessie, being the omnipotent all-knowing teenager that she is, was ready to take up the empathy argument on behalf of her generation. On that note I smiled and closed the car door before she could speak, an effective way of evading such arguments often utilized by people of my own generation.
I waved goodbye to my family and approached the self-appointed gatekeeper to Red’s Smokehouse. Richard didn’t even make the slightest attempt to get out of my path and I found that infuriating. If this was his attempt at a “cry for help” then it surely wasn’t going to work for him because I wasn’t beneath punching him in the head if he didn’t get out of my way.
“Hey, do you have smokes on you?” He asked nonchalantly.
“Yes I do.” I said brushing past him impatiently “Thanks for asking!”
A few of the regulars were already there and they greeted me with the familiar nods and smiles of acknowledgement. As I sat at the bar a pint of bud light magically appeared before me. I smiled at Mary in appreciation.
“What’s up with the new doorman?” I asked.
I took off my jacket and placed my reading glasses and phone on the bar.
“That’s kind of a unique approach..” I continued “Have the undesirable homeless guy screening other undesirables for admittance.Takes one to know one, as they say.”
Mary frowned and shook her head in obvious frustration.
“Gus isn’t in today and, even if he was, he would likely just get me to deal with this nonsense anyway.”
I peered out through the glass doors and wondered if Richard’s presence was likely to impede business at all. After careful consideration, I imagined that it probably would. While most of the regulars couldn’t have cared either way, the lurking figure of this transient was certainly not going to appeal to any first time customers that Red’s might have been able to entrap. I say “entrap” because it’s an established fact that most first timers don’t return for the food. Although they could be barflies in search of a new coven.
Barflies are just regular people that come from all walks of life. They move around just like anybody else but they just tend to drink out more often than the average person. And, as statistics can confirm, just more in general. If they were to be searching for something new, they’d be seeking both anonymity and affordable alcoholic appeasement for their own lingering addiction. Even though some of them may very well be just a few drinks away from being destitute themselves, they’ll want to impress while they still have any semblance of discerning taste.
“I’m going to go out there and tell him to fuck off.” Mary said, sounding a little less hospitable than usual.
I watched curiously as she started to march towards the entrance. She had that sobering, stone cold gaze usually reserved for prize fighters entering the ring before doing battle. From over my shoulder came a few comments from some of the others.
“Oooo, this is gonna be interesting..” one voice said in an excited whisper.
“Five bucks says Mary drops him like a bag of shit.” Another voice, that I recognized as Phil White, gruffly piped in.
We all watched as Mary pushed open the door violently, hitting Richard in the backside as it opened. You could see in his face that he was quite unprepared and a little fearful now that somebody had directly confronted him. The fact that it was a woman made it all the more uncomfortable because, if it were to come to violence, then there would not be a soul among us who could get behind him hitting a girl. On the other hand, if Mary was to hit Richard then he would’ve just looked like a pussy to the rest of us. Not that appearances seemed to be high on his priority list anyway. Afterall, he already lived outdoors and basically begged for a living.
Mary shouted at him angrily although we couldn’t actually hear it. She then pointed him away from the restaurant and tried to shoo him away like a stray mongrel. She then turned and stormed back into the bar.
“…calling the fuckin’ cops..” The tail end of her tirade sneaked through like a cold gust of wind when she opened the door.
Richard defiantly rushed in after her and poked his head through the door like a petulant child.
“How dare you call me a loser!” Richard yelled angrily, although he probably knew himself that there wouldn’t be any blue ribbons coming his way in the near future.
Mary raised a dirty pint glass and held it up like she might throw it at him. I stood up and approached her from behind. It’s not like I wanted to get involved but I thought maybe I had to get involved.
“You get the hell out of here now!” Mary screamed angrily “Or I swear to God, I’ll take your eyes out with this fucking glass. And you are a loser!”
“Oh ya? If I’m a loser then you’re….YOU’RE AN OLD WHORE!”
Mary brought her arm back to heave the glass and I was fortunately able to grab it from her hands. She spun on me like a rabid feral boar. Her wild eyes suggested that I might very well be turned into stone if I didn’t turn away. I gently raised my hands and hoped that she hadn’t snapped completely otherwise I might be the one coerced into striking a woman.
“Richard, get the hell out of here, bud. Please.”
I was trying my best to be calm but inside the butterflies were beginning, just like they used to in my more combative days. I had said “Please” and I had also been the one to actively step into this fray. Perhaps I should’ve just let her throw the glass because now Richard would either leave or I would be expected to physically remove him myself.
His eyes met mine and I could see that he was running out of steam. He smirked and it was obvious that he wasn’t going to pursue this any further. He then backed out of the restaurant gingerly and slinked off into the impending darkness of the winter dusk. I took a deep breath and exhaled with great relief. I was also very pleased to see that a couple of my old barfly compatriots were standing behind me and were clearly going to have my back.
“You okay, Mary?” I asked, slowly settling back onto my bar stool.
It had quickly become a completely foreign atmosphere from the one just a few seconds prior. It was almost like I had just stepped out of a time machine. I was definitely feeling a little out of sync and I assumed that it would come to pass.
Mary had the sullen look of a woman scorned and it certainly invoked particular memories for many of the divorced men in her presence. Something a little less sentimental than nostalgia . She had obviously been traumatized by this incident. It was intense, yes, but there had been no bloodshed. Nothing but some unpleasant words.
“Don’t worry, pal. We’re grown-ups now..words can’t hurt you.” I tried to soothe her.
“He called me old!” She moaned, as if the words had left a gaping wound in her very heart.
It was eerily silent at that moment save for the sound of Phil White clearing his throat from across the bar and muttering to the others matter of factly, “He actually called her an old whore..”
Mary sneered at Phil with a vile disdain and screamed “I’m not OLD!”
I was actually scared for humanity knowing that she was able to elevate her level of contempt to an even higher degree than I had previously witnessed. The others shifted uncomfortably and looked downward like chastised school children having just been berated by a psychotic nun. They sheepishly admonished Phil under their breath while shaking their heads and furrowing their brows. I found it strange that she was so devastated by being called “old” but the “whore” part just kind of slid off her back like it had no effect whatsoever. I just wrote it off as a woman coming from Venus type of circumstance.
The other perplexing issue that had been brought suddenly to our attention was the strange fact that Phil appeared to be completely devoid of good grace and common sense, yet he was the only barfly among us that still happened to be married.
It certainly had been an unnerving incident, there was no doubt of that. There was that element of chaos where anything can happen and nothing is guaranteed. The tension gurgled and spat like magma slowly rising towards its inevitable violent release, the eruption bound to envelop us in its destructive bravado. Then nothing..The massive sneeze that wasn’t. The orgasm that never came.
I went for a sip of my beer but quickly stopped before the glass could even brush against my lips. I sat still for a couple seconds and listened to the sounds around me. It was astounding! With a snap of the fingers, it was like nothing had even happened at all. I’d been transported at the speed of light right back to where I had been moments ago.
There were the sounds of voices yammering aimlessly like background actors in an old movie scene, a couple of half-hearted guffaws and forced chuckles, clinking glasses, smacking lips, shuffling feet. Monotone and aimless, lazy and uninspiring. Just another day at Red’s Smokehouse.
I took a hearty gulp of my draft beer and, after putting the glass down, placed a coaster on top. This was an indicator to Mary that I was going to be smoking outside and, as I would be returning to finish my drink, I’d very much prefer that she not pour it out and try to sell me another. The last gulp is second only to the first with all others in between serving merely as filler. Although it’s those meaningless drops in the middle that seem to cause the most grief.
It’s actually difficult to get outside discreetly without being followed by a pack of barflies who seem to tune in to some mysterious preternatural queue that you never intended. I like to smoke alone or with the party that I had been drinking with in the first place. I smoke like I eat, and even that’s only because I am addicted to tobacco. If I could muster the required resilience then I would certainly choose to not smoke. It’s funny how you are more cognizant of a poor decision after experiencing its brutal repercussions firsthand. Sadly, many romantic relationships have been known to end just like that as well.
Once outside I opened my cell phone case and was preparing to call Lenny when I was startled by a familiar voice from behind me.
“Where’s your bum buddy today?”
It was the voice of Russell Shalebank. I was surprised that he seemed so astutely capable of remaining undetected because he had the reputation of being a notoriously obnoxious drunkard. Still a nice guy up until about the fourth pint then…Dr. Jekyll! He appeared to be less than halfway to the magic number.
I smiled in recognition although it did kind of perturb me the way Russell had asked about my “bum buddy”, making some kind of redundant homosexual inference. He was obviously referring to my friend Lenny, who he knew was quite obviously not my gay lover. It just seemed such an immature way to casually inquire about a mutual acquaintance, like something that you might’ve encountered fifty years ago as a first year high school student.
It didn’t offend me. It just served to remind me of ol’ Russ’s stunted emotional growth and that his mind was never able to truly move beyond the high school scene. In that sense, while he may have physically earned a standard high school diploma his intellect apparently never did.
“Hey, bud.” I said with a nod, “I’m just about to text Lenny now and see what he’s up to.”
“That was something else with Rich, eh?”
Ahh! The familiar trappings of a meaningless engagement, I thought to myself.
I looked at him and just shrugged. This was the main reason that I have a very specific companion policy when I’m inclined to indulge in my vices.
“Surely you must realize that you’re kind of indirectly responsible, Russ.” I said, cocking my head and looking directly at him.
Russell Shalebank shifted uneasily and I was fully aware that there would be a staunch denial of culpability to follow. He crossed his eyes in the way that people do when they try to appear indignant, offended by the mere suggestion. People often do this even when they know full well that what they’re hearing is, indeed, factual.
“How am I responsible for that bullshit?” Russell protested accordingly.
I frowned and flared my nostrils, providing for that full castigative look that’s often utilized by cops and unapproving parents worldwide to such great effect.
“Come on, Russ. You’re always buying him beers and bringing him into the pub when you know he’s in a bad place..”
“Well he’s got no money!” Russ exclaimed “I’m just trying to help him out..”
“Bud, you gotta realize that he has no money because he’s already pissed it all away on booze. He’s going to have to quit drinking entirely and he’s not going to be able to do that if you keep buying him booze!”
Russell looked genuinely hurt by my remarks and I made an effort to steady my tone and lower the pitch.
“Russ, it’s called enabling. It’s kinda like using gasoline to put out a fire.”
It quickly dawned on me that Russell was very often prone to sloppy dysfunctional episodes himself and there was always the likelihood that he wouldn’t even recall buying Richard beers the previous evening. For all intents and purposes, I might as well have been talking to Russell about himself instead of Richard.
I was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of sadness. Not just for Richard or Russell, but for all of humanity including myself. It was as if I was peering into a vast infinite void of icy desolation. Yet in this eternal emptiness lay everything that one could ever experience. The sights, the sounds, the tastes, the smells. There were so many options and yet, when all of these things were to be combined they would still add up to a grand total of nothing.
There has always been a particular expression that I absolutely disdain. Ironically, it is something that Richard himself would always say and perhaps it made me even more dismissive of him for continually repeating those words over the years. It seemed like the most insipid and lame phrase that I had ever heard in my life. It struck me as being absolutely meaningless and I was not in the least surprised that it would be Richard’s motto.
Strangely, at that moment in time though, outside of being literally speechless, it seemed that there was only one appropriate thing that I could actually say. I smiled weakly at Russell and winked at him.
“It is what it is, I guess.” I muttered with a sentiment that somewhat resembled a kind apology.
I turned my attention back to the cellphone in my hand and sent Lenny a text while puffing away on my smoke.
“You coming to Red’s?”
I walked over to the garbage can and, after butting out the smoke thoroughly, tossed it into the trash. Admittedly, I do probably offend some folks with my second hand smoke as that sort of comes to be expected with the whole smoking package. I do, however, take great pride in throwing my butts in the garbage and making a solid effort to ensure that they are extinguished and will not start a fire within the refuse. With my old man being a retired firefighter, I could not live with myself if I were to disgrace his name by carelessly setting the trash can ablaze!
I drank the remains of my draught and held the glass for Mary to take note that I was definitely down for another. Stalwart that she was, she poured me another bud light and brought it over to me. The solemn look that her face was wearing indicated that it might take considerable time for her to come to the realization that, if anything, she definitely wasn’t young. Surely her body must’ve hinted at this sad truth on occasion.
My phone makes the most agitating sound when somebody sends me a text message. With all the impressive advancements that we’ve seen in technology you would think they could come up with something that doesn’t sound like it came out of an early 70’s sci-fi movie. My daughter would surely delight in telling me that they already have and I just don’t know anything about downloadable ring tones..Which admittedly, I don’t.
While I was expecting a message from Lenny, I still checked the message with some apprehension. There have been times when I am the unlucky recipient of an urgent message from work and said messages have disrupted beer buzzes in the past. I was relieved to see that it had been Lenny.
“Sorry, bud. Going to stay in tonight.”
Normally I would send a thumb’s up emoji. It was my way of indicating that message was received and there would be no need to engage in this pseudo conversation any further. Lenny was my best friend though and I felt that the least I could do was to ask him if he was okay.
“Are you okay? Just asking”
I do care about those that I love but I also respect their privacy and most certainly don’t want them to think that I’m a pathetic loser who can’t stand to be alone either. While there are probably those who may be on the fence with regards to my pathetic loser status, I can assure all that I’m completely comfortable flying solo.
The reply that Lenny sent back might have appeared cryptic to most but I knew exactly what he was implying because I was beginning to feel the same way.
“Starting to feel trapped inside a Billy Joel song”
I lol’d for sure and looked up to catch the scowl that still adorned Mary’s face and thought, yes, there’s definitely someplace that she’d rather be too..
It seemed obvious to me that my friend was kind of in a blue mood and that I should try and put a smile on his face, however temporary it may be.
“Uptown Girl”
My thick-headed quip merited a swift response.
“Piano Man. You dumb Fuck!!!”
I felt pleased with myself knowing that I had briefly amused him. As I looked around the bar I realized that I had already been slowly sinking beneath the waves of that great metaphorical sea of despair myself. I knew that if this descent were to continue that I wouldn’t be able to remain pleased with myself for very long.
I managed to get the attention of my disgruntled bartender, Mary Not-so-maiden, and waved her towards me.
“I’ll take one more and the tab.” I informed her.
“Oh,” she replied with surprise, “ is everything okay?”
“Of course.” I lied to her with great reassurance “Something’s just come up.”
I wasn’t inclined to tell her that the entire scene around me had just suddenly lost all of its appeal, like the curtain had just been drawn and now you could actually see the futility and melancholy that had always been there lurking behind it. No, I wouldn’t have to tell her that because she’d been working there for so long now that she must’ve already known. Then again, she seemed unable to acknowledge the ageing process..
As soon as I was able to pay my tab, I called for an Uber and waited until its very arrival before leaving my bar stool. I could’ve waited outside and had a smoke but somebody would have been sure to follow. I even had to go pee but I was content to hold it until I reached my destination because, again, the possibility of someone wanting to exchange small talk was not appealing to me at that particular time.
Looking back now, the setting had all the familiar tropes of that very same science fiction film that was apt to be featuring my cellular phone’s annoying ringtone. I realize now, of course, that is what a panic attack feels like.
I was eventually able to get home, relieve my bladder, and go immediately to bed. I don’t think you need to be a medical professional in order to appreciate the health benefits of a good night’s sleep.