Drinking to Remember

Drinking to Remember
By Stuart Baum


This is not my story.

I don't know if the man I met was crazy or simply the world's most articulate drunk. I do know that the story felt like the truth, even though it was the one of the least believable stories I've ever heard. It was, simply, the most unbelievable story I ever believed.

You know you are sitting near a drunk, one who is very familiar to the bartender, when he asks the bartender to leave the bottle. And the bartender does.

Also, it was clear that the bartender wasn't charging the man for his drinks. He, the bartender that is, simply walked over and dropped a few more ice cubes into the man's glass every now and then.

The man was wearing a brown suit with a beige shirt and a brown and darker brown striped tie. The tie was untied. Who still wears brown suits? Who goes to a dive bar in a suit? He, the brown-suited man, had a five o'clock shadow, which meant he shaved in the morning, which meant that at nine in the morning he was clean-shaven and in a suit, albeit brown.

By seven in the evening, he was sitting at a dive bar self-pouring glasses of Knob Creek.

I was two bar stools over. The tale that put me two seat away from the brown-suited man, drinking my standard Bacardi and Coke was pathetic, believable and all-too-common.

But this is not my story.

He, the brown-suited man, caught my eye and tilted his glass slightly towards me. I was in no mood to talk to anyone, except perhaps the bartender, but he made me curious, so I nodded in acknowledgement.

He raised his glass slightly higher and said, "I drink to remember." He smiled slightly, as if it were well-worn joke. Turns out it was a joke, but, at that time, I had no context.

The bartender was suddenly in front of me and said, "This is worth a listen." I must have looked confused, since he added, "If nothing else, you will leave feeling better about whatever you brought you in here."

"Okay," I said to the brown-suited man, "What are you drinking to remember?"

He replied with a non sequitur, "I own the bar and the building." His voice was flat and neutral. It was a voice you would only remember if you were thinking about a voice that had no tone or quality to it.

He continued without prompting. "Two years ago, I was sitting right where you were and he was sitting where I am." I was too tired and depressed to even try to figure out where this story was heading, so I motioned for the bartender to bring me another Bacardi & Coke.

The brown-suited man continued, "He had a black suit, a nice one, and a light blue tie. No pocket square. No large ring."

Let me tell you something about myself, which should help. I write fiction for a living, mainly short stories. Why do I mention this? Because his two negative story details, the last six words he spoke, caught my attention professionally. 'No pocket square. No large ring.' I wanted to steal them for my next character. In any case, I was hooked. He had me until he was done talking, even if it were for hours. At that very moment, two Bacardi & Cokes appeared in front of me. This made me smile.

He continued, his tone flat, his words staccato. "I told the man in the black suit my troubles. The normal sad sack story. Maybe even yours. Alimony, child support, no money, and no line of sight to any money. And, worse still, no hope of finding a sympathetic woman in my bed. Not even one of those women who pities us losers. Who can't help themselves. You know the type."

He took a slow, but small sip of his whisky and then tipped a small splash from the bottle into his glass. "You know the type?"

The question took me by surprise. I did not know he even realized I was still there. "I wish I did," I responded.

He smiled slightly, and I caught a flash of a gold tooth. "We all wish we did," he said. "They are a fabulous consolation prize."

He took another small sip of whisky, refilled the sip, and continued, "This man asked me if I ever traveled to a foreign country or anywhere especially memorable in the United States. He used that phrase specifically: especially memorable. My wife and I had traveled extensively internationally before we had children, so I had long list. We continued after we had children, traveling, but generally remained in the country, except for Mexico and Canada. I told him that list, as well.

"After thinking for a while and twisting the small silver band on his ring finger, not a large ring, it did not even have a stone, he said, 'I'll take Tokyo.' I recall that term: take. Take. It seemed an odd turn of phrase, but, at this point I had no idea why he was asking me about my travels."

The man took and refilled another sip of his drink. The bartender dropped in a new ice cube.

"He said, 'It's a simple exchange. You let me take your memories of Tokyo and I'll give you this.' He slid a Franck Muller Long Island down the bar to me."

I had no idea what this was, but the brown-suited man explained before I could ask. "It's a watch I had wanted for years, worth about the same as a nice car." 'It's a simple exchange,' he repeated. 'You give me Tokyo and I'll give you this watch. You can sell it, keep it, donate it. All up to you. But once you agree, you'll lose all memories of your trip to Tokyo."

Here, the brown-suited man paused, turned away from me and stared into his drink. He bit his lower lip and, still staring at his drink, said, "I took the deal."

"As soon as I slid the watch onto my wrist, I lost all memories of the trip to Tokyo I took with my ex-wife. Seemed like not much of a loss at the time. I knew I had gone. To Tokyo, that is. I could remember sitting in the airport bar, drinking away the flight delay. We had decided, my wife and I, that the five hours was not worth returning home and coming back, so we decided to find a nice bar, grab a few glasses before leaving. We wanted to sleep on the plane, anyway. I can still remember that bar. And I remember us discussing a day trip I wanted to take and she didn't. I rarely got my way, with my wife, that is, but this time she agreed to go, though I knew she'd drag around and make it unpleasant. I remember this very clearly. I can remember it now. But nothing about the trip until we got home and I returned to work." He looked at me. "At the time, I thought it was a great trade. A $30,000 watch for a memory I no longer really wanted. Or at least didn't at the time. The time of the trade, that is.

"It wasn't until later that night, back at my apartment, when I wondered if it was a parlor trick and a fake Franck Muller. The next morning, I went to a watch store and asked if they would make me an offer for the watch. They offered me $14,000. It was the real deal.

"The next night, the man was back at the bar, in the same seat. The one I am sitting in now. The next trade took less than five minutes. A Faberge egg, clearly antique and valuable, for a week in Paris. He had originally asked for a later trip, to the Everglades, but it was with the kids and I did not want to give that one up. I did, later. But at the time, I wanted to keep that one. I sold the egg for $32,500. That was the beginning of the end. The trip to Paris cost me less than $10,000, so I tripled my investment is the way I looked at it. And I had already consumed all the value, so it was like tripling your investment for something you no longer had. Something I no longer had." He took and refilled a sip of his drink. "Something I no longer had." He repeated the phrase more slowly the third time. "Something I no longer had."

Here he took a long pull of his drink. This time, the bartender refilled the missing whisky and dropped in one, two, three ice cubes.

The brown-suited man suddenly started talking again. "One night he stopped showing up. I had more travels left. I still remembered, can remember now, many long weekends away and even a few full weeks, but he was no longer sitting here, where I am. I guess he got the ones he wanted. After three weeks of evenings at the bar, I had more than a million dollars in cash, the deed to the building we are in now, this bar, and two homes. As well as various other items of value, including this watch." He showed me the Franck Muller. It was a stylish watch, which, under another circumstance, I would have envied. "Not set for life, not with alimony and child support, but plenty to get my life back on track."

A new Bacardi & Coke appeared in front of me as the two empty glasses disappeared. I leaned towards the bar and lifted the glass. I recalled a trip to Kuala Lumpur with my then wife. Sipping tea on the edge of a plantation. The steam and the aroma coming up from the large ceramic cups. Looking over at my wife, who I then loved, before she ... before we ... her eyes closed as she took in the flavor of the tea and the pungent, damp air, mixing together. A perfect moment in time. A counterpoint to the present. Do I hate her? No. I never did, even at our worst moment. It had to end, so we ended it. More her than me. What would I trade for that moment? Would I delete this memory for a Franck Muller? A Russian egg? The deed to this dive bar where I am sipping a Bacardi and Coke?

Another moment. Sitting in the bar at the Grand Hotel in St. Petersburg. We stayed far more affordably, but took avail of the nicer hotels for their lobby bars and caf. She was slowly enjoying white mushroom risotto while I was drinking my afternoon snack. A ... what was it called? Some sort of fancy rum and pomegranate cocktail. Maybe the best cocktail I ever had. Again, her eyes closed as she took in the ambiance and the flavors. A 'Philanthropist,' the drink was called. That was it. She wore her grey, sequined dress, which lit up her blue eyes. Small daisy patterns made from sequins. Subtle and fashionable. There were times when she was so relaxed, you couldn't help but be content. People would stop and tilt their heads as they walked by. Waiters would hesitate to interrupt, even if they were bringing us our orders. She made people near her content and relaxed. This was one of those moments.

I wondered at the hole in my memory, in my heart, that losing that mental snapshot, that emotion of contentness, would create. Could I simply rip up the picture, delete the mental file, and move forward? And, if so, at what price?

The Bacardi and Coke tasted flat, thin and too sweet compared to this memory. I could taste the subtle and more complex flavors of the ... what was that drink called? The Advocate? No. So much lost, so much in the past. But what would it take to ... A Philanthropist. That was the name of the drink. The bar bill, her risotto and my drink, cost about $50 or 1,800 rubles. Would I trade a $50 memory for a $25,000 watch?

This question made me realize that he brown-suited man had stopped talking, unsure how long ago. Was the story complete? I looked over ... and the seat was empty. The bottle and glass were gone.

I searched for the bartender, but he, too, was nowhere to be seen. There were others at the bar. An older couple sitting at the far end and few people at the booths and tables, but the man was gone.

'Drinking to remember,' he said. I took another sip of the drink, so familiar. How many of these had I had in my life? How many more would I have?

My son and I were on a patio overlooking the ocean in Isabel, Puerto Rico. A storm was coming in, which turned out to be pretty severe. At the time, it was good theatre, a great view from the patio restaurant. I was drinking a Cuba Libre, which is the same as what I am sipping now. My son, then fourteen, was eating a bowl of fruit. Star fruit, mango, papaya, chironja, and others. We were watching the storm.

This was after the divorce, so our father-son relationship was tenuous. He agreed to join me on this trip, which was unexpected. During the week in Puerto Rico, we mostly avoided each other. Him walking the beach looking for coconuts and me staying at the hotel, sitting on the patio, drinking this same drink and worrying that he might never return. And then this moment, the one I remember so clearly, watching the storm come in. And another moment, now that I wind back, walking around the depressed town and trying 'street food,' which is what my son called it. He liked trying local food, especially those sold by vendors on the roadside. This time they were shish kebobs, unsure what meat, likely chicken if the memory of the taste is correct, heated up over a can of sterno. Something you would never trust back in the States. Another memory, the rain forest. What was the name of that place? Junta? Nope. Something like that, though. I can hear the sound of the birds and him noticing that the lizards, though hidden at first look, were actually everywhere. We looked for places without lizards and every time we thought we found a tree trunk or flat mossy rock without lizards, we'd peer closer and they instantly appear and scuttle off.

No. Not for a $35,000 Franck Muller watch. Not for a million dollars. Not that anyone was offering. A million dollars for that one memory? No. Not even for that.

I stood up and pulled out my wallet from my back pocket. The bartender, who was now directly behind the bar right in front of me shook his head. As if I had questioned his intention, or did not understand, he made it more clear by waving his hand across the space between us. I continued to reach in the wallet, for a tip, but he shook his head slowly.

He picked up the empty glass and quickly turned away from me.

I left the bar feeling exactly as the bartender promised I would.

As I wandered down the street in the musky post-storm air, it must have poured while the brown-suited man was weaving his tale, true or not, I started thinking about my own life and realized ... and realized ... which made me laugh out loud ...

But this is not my story.

End.