Rack 'em Up

Drink one is a conversation starter. It's a relaxer, because this place is half-empty now but will soon be full and you know you'll need the liquor to deal with the intrusion. But right now it's just you and a select few and inevitably someone will recognize you as your sister's brother and conversation will ensue. So you have drink one to compensate, to prepare, like a good little Boy Scout but without the homoeroticism.

Drink two follows naturally, because you're already here and why not? One is never enough anyway and if you're gonna have one you might as well have another. Things are still seen clearly and the seat you've found is comfy but not too comfy and your slouch could use a little help. Someone asks you to take a picture of them and their photogenic friends and you indulge them, keep your finger off the lens there buddy that's a good sport, and there in a flash are all their beaming smiles, hiding who knows what gripes and grudges and secret crushes. Drink two, too, is gone in a flash.

Drink three is going to be your last one because the show is starting, or a show is starting anyway, and you'll have things to do and places to go later on, so best to keep things reasonable, moderation in all things and wow that's a lot of liquor there but oh well don't look a gift horse in the mouth. What she done poured is what she done poured and you have testicles don't you so drink up. You return to your seat to find it taken. You find a wall to lean against and do so. The man next to you nods in agreement with something you haven't said, or in acceptance of something you weren't aware you did, and is this how people make friends? Oh how times have changed, if times have changed; you really don't remember how you made your friends or if you actually ever did, or if they simply gave up trying to find a nice way to say no.

Drink four happens without you really thinking about it and by the time you have it it's too late to turn back. There is a pizza place across the street begging for your indulgence. Drink four disappears hastily and is followed by pizza.

Drink five and you're starting to resent other people having a good time. Who the fuck do they think they are? Laughing and smiling and carrying on; don't they know there's a pandemic out there? Quick flashback to The Stand and M-O-O-N spells the sweet relief of a roomful of dead strangers. You shake that off, that's not very Christian of you, and sweet Jesus you need another drink.

Drink six and the resentment has hardened and crystallized into something so beautiful you stand at the urinal for a moment, just enjoying the silence. Back out in the room and it's all loud music and bad dance moves now. Somewhere in this city a gaggle of bros has sprung forth and descended upon this scene. They take up space with their muscles and their grins and their cocked ballcaps and two of them you swear to fucking God are serenading each other, mouthing the lyrics to one another with big shit-eating grins. That's okay, that's fine. A big wide fellow forces his way past you and into the melee, meaty hands holding aloft a small litter of tallboys. Why are you even here? Your misanthropy drags you back to a familiar place...

Drink seven and you're back against another wall, and if you could disappear into it you would but you fear that your glass would remain on the other side, and you'd hate to leave that behind for some undeserving bro to claim for his own, all that beautiful beautiful alcohol gone to waste on his worthless hide. Your lips are numb, maybe atrophied from lack of use, and you remember something somebody dead once wrote about the big problem with dumb bastards, except you can't really remember what exactly it was, and you spend the rest of the evening trying to come up with a suitable alternative but to no avail, you're not that smart and all those drinks sure aren't helping any.

You arrive home somehow, which is both scary and a relief. You are in one piece. There is no hobo stuck in your windshield. You think for once you might have come out ahead. You shove a two-day-old half-eaten muffin into your mouth and collapse on your bed. You leave the lights on. They, unlike the booze and the bros and the band and the muffin, will still be there when you awake.