Frankie's Window

Frankie’s Window

Over the course of my admittedly short life I’ve concluded that just about anyone who lives by a specific set philosophy is either hiding from something or just completely full of shit. If it wasn’t attention that they craved you could always pinpoint, if you cared enough to look for it, some defining moment in which one of several rehearsed spiels about life served as a sturdy shield against a less than pleasant reality. I never needed words to live by; I wore a pretty comfortable groove in my own misery. I knew my life sucked and embraced it. This was my general attitude before I met the girl who ruined everything.

Mark and I lived directly across the street from each other our entire lives. As kids, we were always getting into some kind of trouble and enjoying every second of it. As far as the adult opinion on our shenanigans, let’s just say you’ve never heard the phrase “boys will boys” repeated so routinely. Joining us in our adventures in pre-pubescence was a girl named Amanda at the end of our street. Amanda was a fat tomboy with cooties. However, with each passing year she’d lose a little more weight, and a little more cooties. By the time our adolescence kicked in, Amanda was the prettiest girl on the street. This lead to what I considered to be an unspoken war between Mark and myself. We’d each take shots at hanging out with Amanda alone, and when we were all together Mark and I would compete for her attention. She never seemed to notice.

I guess Mark just grew up faster than I did. When we were seventeen, while I was still afraid to confront Amanda with my feelings, Mark decided to drop the bomb. When I found out they were dating I kicked myself, but remained as silent as always, feigning happiness for both parties. Indeed, they were happy together for years, happy enough for me to rationalize the unimportance of my feelings and the righteousness of my dissatisfaction. There was no point in feeling animosity towards either Mark or Amanda; I simply missed my boat. Of course, as we got older and their relationship proved solid, this didn’t stop me from drinking heavily and hating them both in the interest of self-preservation. We were in our early twenties. On the same day I announced the failure of another relationship, Mark and Amanda so proudly announced their engagement. Timing really is everything, I lose another girlfriend that wasn’t Amanda and the cotton candy couple twists the knife.

Their announcement had me spending every other night at Frankie’s, a nearby tavern, drinking silently and staring at muted televisions with nothing interesting on. When you live in a bar you start to notice certain patterns in behavior. For instance, no less than twice a day a drunk by his lonesome would start singing along to a country song in which the singer has just lost everything while a group of forty-something year old women would sit at the table behind me and trash-talk the husbands they pretended to love. On the weekends, some kids would come in to play pool, make noise, and flash their fake ID's at Frankie the bartender, who couldn’t have cared less how old they were. And I’d be there, a tacky countertop decoration with a pulse. I was almost catatonic if I wasn’t sucking down a drink or ordering another. This was always the scene. It stayed the same, not so pretty but familiar. It stayed safe, at least for a little while.

It was Friday night, Mark and Amanda were getting married on Sunday and I was supposed to be at a bachelor party to which the bride was invited, the second dumbest thing I have ever heard. I told them I was sick, which wasn’t too far from the truth. I was in my hiding place as usual. The kids were playing pool and making noise, the drunk was coating his liver with musical motivation, the women were consoling their teary eyed friend whose husband finally left her, and Frankie was selling liquor to minors. Home sweet home. If the face wasn’t familiar it could be associated with a face that was. This provided me with much comfort until I noticed a sudden change in Frankie’s typically dreary expression. Frankie was just as surprised as I was when an attractive young lady that couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five walked into the door without an escort. This just didn’t happen, not here. As she sat beside me I noticed energy in Frankie that he had never displayed. The kids were staring and their girlfriends noticed, the women sent bitter eyes her way, and the drunk actually stopped mid-song! She changed the entire environment of my little safe house just by being there. What a bitch! She ordered a drink and as Frankie quickly obliged with a traitorous smile on his face, she turned to me.

“I’m Sarah.” Now she was ruining the name I gave her in my mind, cunt.

I grudgingly gave my name, keeping my eyes fixated on the silent television in hopes that she’d get the hint. She didn’t.

“What’s your story?”

Damn! Looking her in the eyes for the first time, I understood Frankie’s demeanor. She asked me if I was ok, apparently I had been staring. I responded by standing up, slapping money on the counter, and stumbling out the front door.

I was too drunk to drive, but I didn’t want to be in there anymore. I never came to talk and I didn’t appreciate the attention. Ignoring the conveniently located bench, I slumped down on the sidewalk next to it and leaned my back against the outer wall of the bar. Thoughts of Amanda surrounded thoughts of failed relationships with other women, and then to Mark. Betrayal was a reoccurring theme that played over and over in my mind. My inner-critic made every second feel like an hour of brutal lecturing. I entertained the idea of running passionate and pissed, in more ways than one, into that party and dropping all the cards on the table. Confronting both Mark and Amanda at a bachelor party not worthy of its title. But that would have been foolish. That would have been selfish.

The venomous sting of Sarah’s sweet voice abruptly halted my sulking.

“You’ve got ants on you.”

Sure enough I looked down to see a little black trail of ants marching up and over my pant leg. I stood up, brushed them off and relocated to the bench. Sarah sat next to me.

“I bet she was a real witch.” I shot her a puzzled look. “Your girlfriend, wife, or whoever.”

Cool, I was being analyzed! This is what I needed right now, to be picked apart by a perfect stranger who wouldn’t leave me alone.

“Actually,” I blame the alcohol for this, “my best friend is marrying the woman I love.”

She shook her head with a smile. “My boyfriend cheated on me, I caught him. That’s why I’m drinking. When your boyfriend cheats on you, you drink.” I laughed; she seemed to have it all figured out, but she wasn’t finished. “What do you love about her?”

In that instant, I became completely sober. What did I love about her? I actually had to search my brain for an answer, a reason for all of this self-inflicted drama. What I wanted I couldn’t have, but why did I want it? From inside I heard familiar off-key singing. I turned and gazed into Frankie’s window. The woman was crying, the kids were playing, and Frankie was bored. My home had returned to normal, but I wasn’t there. Everything as it should be. Sarah didn’t bother to prompt me for an answer; she stood up and headed back inside. I stopped her.

“She was always there” I said, eyes still focused on the bars interior.

Sarah sighed, “So was he.”

She made her way back into Frankie’s, but I never did.