Thirsty.

A crystalline liquid cascades from the stainless steel tumbler and splashes into my big, V-shaped martini glass, swelling until it reaches the lip. A twist of lemon floats idly at the crest, like a piece of driftwood atop the ocean surf. Little drops of condensation slowly begin to bead up along the outside of the glass.

I’d be less engrossed if my companion abruptly decided to mash her entrée into a soupy paste and snort it.

The bartender places the drink in front of me and I reward his efforts with a polite nod. I mentally count off ten Mississippis before corralling my libation and drawing it to the edge of the bar. Can’t appear overly anxious. I nod at something Julia has said even though I have no idea what it was. I lean in for my first sip; the slight tremor in my hand prevents me from lifting the drink to my lips, so in a microcosmic dash of irony, I go to it. I try to do this while affecting an air of nonchalance, feeling as though everyone in the bar is watching me, knowing exactly what I’m up to and why.

The warm tingle of the first sip is reassuring as it glides down my throat. My relief to be out and in the welcoming atmosphere of my favorite bar seems palpable. It’s my favorite bar only by virtue of convenience; I’ve never put too much stock in ambiance. Grey Goose tastes the same in Joe’s as it does in Radius, and more importantly, administers the same results.

My focus returns to Julia. I’ve now missed too much of her story to comment with any degree of intelligence and an attempt to give feedback will only unveil my inattentiveness, which in turn will piss her off. Even though we’ve been broken up for three years, my mastery of inadvertent ways with which to anger my ex-girlfriend has not waned. I look for a diversion, something from which I can segue into a new topic.

Julia takes a micro sip of her beer. She’s had it for a good fifteen minutes now and it has decreased in volume by about a centimeter. I regard this fact with a combination of resentment and awe. “Lets sit outside on the patio so we can smoke,” I suggest. Smoking and drinking go hand in hand; Boston’s smoking ban in bars and restaurants has been akin to prohibiting popcorn at movie theaters.

Her eyes narrow. “Marc, are you paying attention to me?”

“Yes.”

“See,” she admonishes, “this is why we stopped dating. You don’t listen.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m listening… I’m just wondering why the bartender hasn’t come back yet. And I want a smoke.”

My drink is nearly empty and our bartender is at the opposite end of the bar, chatting with a patron. I give him several minutes and when he still doesn’t return I’m consumed by annoyance. Pay attention, asshole. Again my interest is shanghaied. How can I pay attention to Julia with an empty martini glass taunting me? What if he doesn’t come back in a few more minutes? Should I go get his attention? Will that seem too pushy? What if he forgot about us?

When the bartender finally makes his way back to our corner, I pause in consideration when he asks if I want another.

“Umm… yeah, sure… why not?” I ultimately decide, as though I need a little coaxing. I then take the proffered libation as if it’s the cure to a terminal illness that’s plagued me for years.

We move out to the patio and I light a cigarette, furtively scanning the area for attractive women. Not that I’ll be meeting any; my company is female and I also have a habit of not approaching strange women. Not the most desirous of combinations if you’re hoping to meet one.

Another sip of the martini, a larger swig this time. I shouldn’t drink martinis. I’m a gulper, not a sipper, and my inability to pace myself can pitch me into a state of drunken incoherence within a few short hours. It’s an insidious plunge, too. I’ll be on number six or seven, feeling buzzed but perfectly in control, and then, all of a sudden – wham – midway through number eight I’ll be hammered.

I order another drink from the waitress. It would be helpful if bars had devices similar to those police speed gauges you see set up on back roads that clock your speed and then juxtapose it with the actual speed limit. Except the pub apparatus would measure your level of inebriation and notify you when you’re getting too drunk. Then again, I’d probably just use it as a tool to chart my progress.

I exhale a billow of smoke and watch as the plume lazily ascends into the air. I tell Julia, “I think I have lung cancer.”

She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and rolls her eyes. “Do you, now?”

I’ve always had a macabre fascination with cancer… specifically, my getting it. I tend to envision future weeks as a hairless and weakened shell of the old me, evoking pity and awkwardness from everyone in my life as I deteriorate into a bed-ridden waste. It’s all but a forgone conclusion that I will die from some exceptionally uncommon and agonizing cancer, like an incurable flesh-eating type. When I am someday famous, it won’t be because I’ve accomplished my goals, it will be due to my case study being published in The New England Journal of Medicine. A last, ironic fuck you from life.

I probably get this from growing up with two parents working in the medical profession, and being constantly inundated with tragic stories where some healthy young man has a small pain in his arm but doesn’t get it checked out and ends up dying a gruesome death. I say, “I’ve had a tightness in my chest all afternoon.”

“You smoke too much, drink too much, and yet somehow still run five miles a day. I’m sure that has nothing to do with it.”

“What about arrhythmia? It runs in our family.”

“You don’t have arrhythmia.”

“I do. I know it.”

She sighs. I know that sigh. It’s the You’re getting to a different level of sobriety than I’m currently at and are beginning to annoy me sigh. To keep her out later I’ll need to introduce a line of conversation that interests her or recount a good story. There’s still a gap until the time Alex can meet me and I refuse to drink alone in bars. Luckily I have just the thing. The good part about parents in the medical profession – particularly one who’s an emergency room physician – is that you can turn around and recount their tales to others, evoking in your friends the same reactions you were forced to undergo.

“So this guy – you know, middle aged, wife and kids – goes golfing with some of his buddies last Sunday. They spend the afternoon golfing, drinking beer… basically, being guys. Afterwards, they all go out to a restaurant to get a lobster dinner. They’re all laughing, drinking, having a good time, and one guy bets his friend that he can’t swallow the whole lobster tail at once. If he does it, his meal will be paid for.”

I pause for effect. Julia is looking at me with worry in her eyes. She senses that this will be one of my stories without a pleasant ending, but there’s no turning back; she’s hooked. I continue, “So the guy, who’s a big guy, laughs and takes the bet. He starts swallowing the lobster tail, but about halfway down it gets stuck.” She cringes. Right on cue. I go on, “The guy’s choking, he can’t get this huge lobster tail out of his throat. The Heimlich doesn’t work and so they have to call the paramedics in. Paramedics get there pretty fast, but they can’t get it out either so as an emergency measure they open a hole in this guy’s throat to try to get him some oxygen so he can breathe, you know – the guy’s choking – but that doesn’t work. So he dies right there, with the lobster tail in his throat.”

Julia’s jaw gapes in horror. “That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard. That’s so upsetting.” I grin; I’m pleased by her reaction. But then she adds, “See, that’s what happens to drunk idiots.”

Touché.

Julia orders another beer. I’m eclipsing her intake by at least a three to one clip, and I know this one will be her last.

I go on for a while about how I plan to reenroll in school and get my life together. The discourse is well-trod territory; I practically arrive at such crossroads biweekly, but can’t seem to adhere to my resolutions for any significant period of time. School just isn’t my thing; it gets in the way of my drinking.

This isn’t to suggest that school is the sole benefactor of knowledge; I’m a quick study and have acquired all sorts of pertinent information. To wit: I’ve learned to distinguish a British martini from its American counterpart. I’ve learned that when it comes to tequila, to only drink 100% Agave. I’ve learned to drink ice-brewed beer because of its alcohol/volume ratio and to avoid light beers for the same reason. I’ve learned that the maxim advising to drink at home before heading out so to save money is a poor one; when I do that I get to the bars already in pounding mode and thus wind up spending even more. I’ve learned that if you down a dozen cocktails and then drive home, the likelihood is high that you’ll spend the night in a cell. I’ve learned to dislike wine connoisseurs and their annoying habit of crafting exhaustive dissertations on the particular wine with each sip… an uncle of mine used to swirl his glass, carefully studying the wine for “legs” and then softly inhaling the aroma. He’d then take a small sip and announce a “velvety consistency” or a “subtle undertone of blackberry.” I’d roll my eyes in disgust and drain the entire contents of my goblet. Blackberry my ass. Pour me another.

Julia is entertaining my hopeful yet hollow monologue and I order yet another drink from the waitress. The familiar warmth is washing over me. I feel at ease.

The martinis are doing their work.

When my ex eventually gets up to leave, there’s still about a quarter of her beer remaining in the glass. She does this as if it’s no big deal, like she’s leaving behind a dirty napkin. I think it’s unconscionable.

“Unlike some people, I have work in the morning,” she says, tucking her pack of cigarettes into her purse. “I wish I could stay out getting drunk until all hours of the night with no responsibilities to worry about, but I don’t have that luxury.” I can’t tell if she’s being scornful or if she’s actually a bit jealous. Maybe both. I reach across the table and grab the what's left of her beer.

“Don’t stay out too late,” she advises. “You know how you get when you’re out till close.”

“Nah, I’m sort of tired,” I say, knocking back the remainder of her drink. “I’ll probably meet Alex for a couple, then catch an early train home.” I know even as I speak that this won’t be the case. I envy people like Julia, who can simply severe their nights and go home. When I’m drinking, such an action is unthinkable.

My ex catches a cab and I call Alex. Our conversation goes something like:

“Drinks?”

“Brew House?”

“Nine?”

“See you then.”

I’m at Faneuil Hall, so I jump on the subway at State Street and take it three stops to Back Bay, pleasantly buzzed but nowhere near drunk. Not yet.

Thinking it’s a wise move before I resume drinking, I stop at a deli and scarf down a sub, which is about as effective as laying down a couple sandbags to fortify against a tsunami.

I get to the Brew House first and order a double rum and coke. I’m reaching the point where most people switch to water. Not me. Alex shows up as I’m angling my straw to slurp up a last, watered-down sip. We get a fresh round.

“What number you on?” he asks as the bartender fills our drinks.

“This is my second here, but I had a couple martinis at Joe’s.” A couple being defined as a number between two and seven. Classic lush math.
Alex nods. “I had two at home.”

More ambiguous arithmetic; he has these huge glasses he keeps in his apartment which he fills halfway with booze, per drink. Each “one” of his, in actuality, probably equates to half a dozen. Alex is an excellent person to drink with because he’s always willing to go out and also struggles with limits. Neither of us would ever advise the other to slow down or venture that the other had had enough. We march to the same drummer.

“How’s Julia?”

I shrug. Not an Okay, I guess shrug, but an, I really don’t know shrug. I can’t seem to remember – nor care – about much we’d talked about. “She says you’re still not allowed over her place.” This is due to a drunken mishap one night when Alex and I managed to spill a gallon of milk all over Julia’s apartment, infusing her living quarters with the smell of sour cream that lingered for weeks. He laughs at the memory; one of our favorite things to do is to reminisce about past drunken episodes.

Alex then gives me the latest news update in his loveless marriage. I find the idea of a contemporary being married to be outlandish, and the knowledge that one actually is to be downright terrifying. I have trouble making a relationship outlive the expiration date on a carton of milk.

“I drank until three in the morning last night,” Alex tells me. “Just thought I’d have a glass of vodka, but ended up drinking five. Had to get up at six for work. It fucking sucked.”

I almost clap in glee. I love hearing Alex’s tales of woe that stem from his drinking. Mostly because I can fully relate, and it makes me happy to know that someone else is in the same boat.

We swap drinking war stories until the drunken conversation takes its usual left turn into nowhere.

“My parents used to make us weed the front lawn,” I explain.

“So?”

“‘So’? It’s freakin' inhumane.”

Alex tilts his head back to drain the rest of his drink from around the ice. He gives me a bemused smirk. “How’s that?”

I notice that my drink is also getting dangerously low. The bartender happens by and looks at us expectantly. We nod, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. I tell Alex, “What kind of fucked up human being forces their very own children, kids, people whom they supposedly love more than anyone, to sit in hot soil during a blistering summer day – when all their friends are splashing around in pools – jam their tender, underdeveloped hands into fucking dirt, and rip weeds out of the ground… for hours? It’s sadistic.”

Our booze-lubricated conversations will never be confused with enlightened discourse.

Detecting the alluring scent of female perfume, we notice two young women taking seats at a small table adjacent to us. I’ve always thought of myself as being above the standard, lecherous guy that populates the Boston bar scene, attempting to talk his way into one-night stands with all the panache of an impassioned baboon. The truth is, my hesitation is not born of dignity, it’s from shyness; my intentions are no less wanton.
One of them appears to be looking our way but I can’t tell for sure. Eventually she approaches to ask for a light, and I happily oblige her. Liquid courage now steeped into my veins, I strike up a conversation. Soon the four of us are gathered around a table near the back.

Another round. We discuss politics, sports, and Bostonian culture. We're witty and charming, even profound. The girls are area college students. Boston University, I think. They strike me as being outrageously attractive, which may or may not be the case.

We don’t notice our words begin to slur, thinking they sound sharper and more poignant than we’ve ever heard them. Each drink empties a little quicker than the one before as time ticks by impossibly fast. I’m enjoying the banter so much, in fact, that I don’t realize I’ve just about become the sole speaker.

If I could only be like this all the time. This is my true self: gregarious and intelligent. It’s unfortunate that the pitfalls of sobriety always seem to bury it so resolutely.

Last call. The words resonate with the anguish of a levied guilty verdict. How did it get so late? Suddenly I’m alone. I’m staring at an excessive tab. Why so much? The lights come on. Where did the others go? I can’t seem to remember. With blurred vision I fumble through my wallet, grossly over-tipping because I can’t compute a reasonable one.

I leave the bar on unsteady legs. The sharp winter air stings my eyes as I slowly make my way to my car. Finding it takes some doing. I squint to focus on the road, having an enormously difficult time staying within marked lanes. Somehow I make it home. I stumble up the stairs. Inside. The girl… what was her name? I kick off my shoes, tripping in the process. I crawl into bed still clothed.

***

The next morning I sense the impending pain before I feel it. I brace for the inner cringe induced by recollections of what I said – how I acted – during those illusory moments when anything seemed possible… when I realize that I was not witty, charming, or profound, but more like a drunken idiot.