Marty regarded me strangely for a minute. Then he broke into a smile. “I get it. You’re giving me shit because I didn’t go out much when I was with Lynn. Temporary insanity, buddy. Very temporary and very insane. Seriously over now.”
“That’s not it.”
“Let me make it up to you. I’ll pay for the Mind Eraser.”
The Mind Eraser. Yet another thing I hadn’t thought about in a couple of years. The very memory of the drink made me queasy.
“Was that meant to persuade me?”
“Okay, I know you make a lot more than I do, but hey, a free drink is still a free drink. Especially when it’s a pint of shots.”
I really felt I was going to lose that morning’s granola. I hadn’t had a single drink since I stepped into this universe. What would something like the Mind Eraser do to me? I started to take another tack in avoiding going out with Marty and “our” friends when another thought came to mind. Friday would have been the eve of my wedding. I knew it was going to be a tough weekend. Maybe impossibly tough. Perhaps a little erasure wouldn’t be the worst thing.
“All right, you wore me down,” I said. “If I don’t make partner, I’m holding you personally accountable, but I’ll be there.”
Marty thudded me on the back. “Just made my day, Ken. I’ll see you at the Shamrock.”
He started to head toward the door when he stopped and turned back toward me. “You know I was kidding about paying for the drinks, right?”
“It’s okay, Marty. I can handle it.”
*
I never made a conscious decision to curtail my drinking. None was necessary. Never in my adult life did I fear that I was becoming an alcoholic even though I drank a great deal, because there had been stretches when I was working so hard that I didn’t even think of getting a drink. Once Melissa and I got together, my interest in getting drunk naturally dissipated. What was the point of achieving an altered state when my current state felt so good? Over time, the notion of drinking to get drunk became increasingly unpleasant, the way one might feel about a return trip to Mexico after a bout with Montezuma’s Revenge.
Friday was tough, though. For months, I’d had this day planned out. I would serve Melissa breakfast in bed. Afterward, a reiki specialist would come to the apartment to give her a massage, and then we would return to bed until the late afternoon. That night, we’d have an intimate dinner party at Galileo for family and friends and then come home for some slow dancing in the living room before getting to sleep early for the big day that followed.
Instead, I woke up early Friday morning, grabbed a bagel, took the train to the office, and sat through an endless series of droning meetings. With each minute that passed, I felt just a little emptier, a little more like the best part of my life had passed me by. If Friday had been this bad, Saturday was going to be a nightmare.
By the time the evening rolled around, the idea of an altered state was no longer repellant. A last-minute phone call from a nervous client detained me in the office, so I was running late as I headed toward the Georgetown bar. That was okay. The King of Friday Night had the right to show up after everyone else, didn’t he?
As I climbed out of my car, I glanced up at the sky. A storm was due, and the first tendrils were already creeping overhead. I made my way along sidewalks crowded with chattering college students until I reached the bar. The Shamrock was an Irish pub where students raised in the Midwest pretended to be Irish waiters and waitresses. It was all pretense and more than a little silly, but it was a setting that worked for the numerous evenings of debauchery I once enjoyed.
“Good day to you, Mr. Timian,” an olive-skinned hostess said in an accent more Chicago than Dublin.
I smiled nervously. Being recognized by the first staff member who saw me made me uncomfortable. “Hello.”
“Your party is in the back room.”
The Shamrock was filled with cigarette smoke, loud music, the smell of fried food, and overheated conversation. Getting to the back required weaving through numerous other tables, filled with people who seemed to have started their nights much earlier. One guy backed into me and spun around in confrontation. I threw up my hands and he calmed down. Melissa and I had never been here together and I realized as I continued my journey that I’d never wanted her to see this place, let alone know that I once frequented it. Melissa knew I drank a great deal before we got together. She just didn’t need such a vivid picture of it painted for her.
“Good evening, Mr. Timian,” a waiter staggering under a big tray of nachos shouted. His green shirt matched the cardboard shamrocks dangling from the ceiling. I could barely hear him over the piped-in sounds of an Irish jig played by a California band. Theme bars always had the subtlety of sledgehammers and the authenticity of international pavilions at amusement parks.
“Hey, Ken.” Marty waved a half-empty beer stein in my direction. “You made it. For a few minutes there, I thought you might actually have been serious about having too much work.” Marty was sitting at the foot of three tables pulled together. There were at least fifteen people sitting there with him, all of whom looked like they’d been drinking for a while.
“It was touch and go for a second there,” I said, “but I couldn’t miss out on this, now, could I?”
Chairs scraped the floor as everyone made room for me in the middle of a table. As I settled in my seat, I took stock of my companions. I only knew a few of them. But the business-formal or expensive-casual clothes on the rest were the sign of young Washington professionals. Without asking, I knew that most of them worked for law firms, the government, think tanks, or the myriad places that drew the bright and ambitious to this town.
As a dozen hands reached out to shake mine, my eyes traversed their fingers. Most of them weren’t wearing wedding rings, except for a ponytailed man who wore a plain gold band. I was sure that the lucky woman who it was pledged to was not the giggling blonde currently draping her arm around his shoulders.
A waiter appeared. “What are you starting with tonight, Mr. Timian?”
“Just a club soda,” I said automatically. The waiter seemed confused. I caught Marty’s surprised expression out of the corner of my eye. I’m sure I was imagining it, but I could swear the conversation level dropped while people stared at me. “And a double Bushmills, of course,” I said with a huge smile. The waiter laughed and I saw Marty shake his head.
A leggy brunette sitting beside me smiled with her dark red lips and introduced herself as Andrea. “I’m a friend of Jean,” she said. “She’s told me wonderful things about you.”
“That was nice of her,” I said tentatively. I had no idea who Jean was, and I didn’t want to think too hard about the “wonderful things.”
On the other side of me was a slender man in a blue pinstriped shirt who introduced himself as Burton. Across from him was the ponytailed man with the blonde accessory. The two men were arguing politics while the woman looked bored and sipped aggressively at her drink.
I glanced at Andrea, who also looked bored and maybe a little tipsy. She smiled at me again. Her teeth were just a little irregular – not the picture-perfect smiles of so many people I knew. It was refreshingly attractive.
“So what do you do, Ken?” Obviously Jean hadn’t told her that. Of course, she could have simply been making conversation. It was the first thing everybody asked around here. This was a town that defined you not by who you were but by how you made your living.
“I’m a lawyer. How about yourself?”
She laughed shyly and cast her eyes down.
“Nothing so exciting, I have to say. I’m an office administrator for Wilco Systems. You know, the guys who get those half-billion dollar contracts to run the government’s computers? Sometimes I think we run the government, but that’s another story. Anyway, I make sure we have enough coffee and printer cartridges.”
My whi
skey came and I took a careful sip. The sensation was a little disorienting and I reminded myself to go slowly since my body had little tolerance for alcohol at this point. I took another sip. I had to admit that I loved the taste of Bushmills and maybe even missed it a little.
“Let me guess, Andrea. You come from California.”
“Santa Barbara, as a matter of fact. How did you know?
“You have no regional accent. California natives never do.”
“You have a slight one. New Jersey?
“Close enough. Just outside Philadelphia.”
A couple more sips and I started to feel comfortable. The music, the noise, the heat of bodies crowded together, and of course the whiskey, were all a bit of a cocoon. I could do this for a while. I could probably even enjoy it if I lowered my standards.
“Being a lawyer sounds interesting,” Andrea said. She had very nice legs under her black mini. They were hard to miss, since she’d angled her chair around to face me more directly.
“It has its moments.” I smiled. “But nothing like running the government.”
She laughed and touched me on the arm, allowing her hand to linger there a little bit. Like the whiskey, there was something familiar and both mildly disquieting and mildly fascinating about this exchange. Like most single, well-off guys in this town, I’d had dozens of encounters like this. I had no idea if Andrea was seeing me as a dalliance or a potential catch, but she definitely saw me as game to be hunted. That was clear within thirty seconds.
Marty tapped a spoon against his glass. He rose and moved over behind me, clasping my shoulder.
“For those of you who haven’t attended one of our little outings before, you are looking at a local legend. I refer to Ken Timian, the gentleman before me. Care to say a few words, Ken?”
I felt instantly uncomfortable, the soothing nature of the Bushmills quickly forgotten. “That’s okay, Marty. I’ll leave the speeches to you.”
“If you insist. In a moment, our waitperson will bring a special drink for Mr. Timian. It is known as the Mind Eraser, for reasons that will be obvious as soon as you see it. I cannot divulge the recipe for national security reasons, lest the enemy mount it on their missiles. Though as far as weapons of mass destruction are concerned, this would be a much more pleasant way to die than most. Are you feeling fit tonight, Ken?”
“A little early in the evening, Marty,” I said nervously. In spite of his mentioning the drink earlier in the week, I hadn’t expected to have to deal with it unless I chose to order one myself.
“Nonsense. You’re a little behind the rest of us. This will get you up to speed.”
“Maybe you and I could split one.”
“I don’t think so, Ken. I haven’t prepared my will yet.” Everyone laughed, which did nothing to make me feel more comfortable.
I looked around and noticed that Andrea was regarding me with fascination. She leaned forward and squeezed my leg. “Jean told me you have a superhuman ability to hold your liquor. I can’t wait to see you in action.”
What is it about a woman’s describing you as “superhuman” – even regarding an idiotic activity – that makes men preen ridiculously? Suddenly, I felt emboldened, inspired. Andrea smiled and squeezed my leg again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marty said like a ringmaster at the circus, “I give you the Mind Eraser.” While everyone applauded, a waitress approached the table bearing a pint mug filled with scarlet liquid. I couldn’t remember everything that went into one of these, but I knew it was all more than a hundred proof.
The waitress deposited the drink in front of me. The bartender had put a long pink eraser attached to a toothpick at the rim of the mug. I noticed several waiters and waitresses clustered around and that everyone else at the table stared at me.
I smiled politely and took a tiny sip.
Marty thumped me hard on the back and laughed loudly. “Very funny, Ken. Don’t worry, your boss is nowhere in sight. It’s showtime.”
I stared at the mug and imagined Melissa watching me. What would she think if she saw me in this situation? Not exactly the ’96 Barolo I was planning to order at Galileo, is it?
Then the thought came to me: what difference did it make? Melissa wasn’t watching me. We weren’t getting married tomorrow. If word ever got back to her about Ken Timian and the Mind Eraser, her response would be, “Who’s Ken Timian?” There was a woman in a short dress practically sitting in my lap, exhorting me on – and a whole lot of oblivion waiting on the other side. I reached for the mug.
“Ken. Ken. Ken.”
The rhythmic chant of the crowd inspired me. I brought the mug to my lips. It smelled sweet and pungent. I closed my eyes and took a huge pull. There was no chance I was going to drink the entire thing in one chug. I don’t think I’d ever done that, and I wasn’t sure it was humanly possible. Still, I downed the equivalent of at least five shots at once.
I gasped for breath and reached for my club soda. Applause replaced the chanting. Marty pounded me on the shoulders, exclaiming, “My man’s still got it.” Andrea squeezed my leg again and kissed me on the temple.
I reached for the mug….
*
I opened my eyes to see the ceiling leaning like a weeping willow. Watery light slipped past the blinds, floating like the dust motes they silhouetted. I moved my head – and paid the price. Nausea splashed through my stomach. My head felt squeezed by giant pliers.
A quick glance told me I was in my bedroom. I lay fully dressed on top of my bed. How had I gotten here?
I was parched and aching. I felt like I had the flu, but I knew the disease that caused this “infection” was psychological, not viral.
The last thing I remembered was laughing at some joke Marty told. Now it was the next day – at least I assumed only one day had gone by. The dresser clock said it was almost noon.
I got up gingerly and made my way into the bathroom. I was sure I was going to throw up and even more certain that I wanted to. Nothing happened, though. I stood upright, caught glimpse of myself in the mirror and quickly averted my eyes. I splashed cold water on my face and went back into the bedroom. I thought about laying down again, but that seemed too pathetic for words.
I decided to change my clothes. As I took off my pants, a yellow sticky note fell to the rug. Though I wasn’t sure my head could handle it, I bent down to pick it up.
Ken,
You were in no condition to drive home last night, so I drove your car over and Andrea gave me a ride back. Incidentally, I wouldn’t call Andrea for a while. Passing out on her chest wasn’t the smoothest move. She said she thought you were a nice guy, but just a little too wild. What does she know?
Anyway, sleep it off, buddy. Like I promised, we had fun.
Marty
I sat on the bed and put my head in my hands. I‘d passed out on Andrea’s chest? What did that mean exactly? This might have been the most embarrassing night in my life. Then again, since I had no idea what I was like in this world, maybe it wasn’t even in the top five.
Today, in the world I destroyed, was my wedding day. I suppose in some segments of our society waking up with a Size 10 hangover the day you get married is standard practice. But having the wedding cancelled because the bride didn’t know who you were definitely wasn’t. The hangover would go away several excruciating hours from now, but the reason for the hangover wouldn’t be cured by time.
I’d tried on the notion of “moving on.” It didn’t fit. There was nothing I could or would do to make it fit. I didn’t want to live in a world without Melissa. I didn’t want to go back to being the old me, and I was equally certain that I didn’t want to set off on a new life, finding a woman who might make me feel the way Melissa had made me feel.
I wanted one thing and one thing only. There was no substitute for Melissa and no replacement for the life we shared. I had
to get back to her. She might be cloaked in celebrity and surrounded by an entourage, but I would find a way to get to her.
If I didn’t, life wasn’t worth living.
Chapter 15
Coming upon an Oasis
HELLO PIANOMAN555. THIS IS MELISSALOVER.
The words flashed from my computer at the speed of light. Where did they go? To Los Angeles? Around the world to Australia? The apartment next door?
I waited impatiently as seconds ticked by. Then words appeared across my computer screen.
HI MELISSALUV. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?
I WANT TO SEE MELISSA PLAY. DO YOU KNOW WHERE HER NEXT CONCERT IS?
Who was Pianoman555? Was he indeed a man, or was he a woman who liked the Billy Joel song? My searching around the Internet for information about Melissa landed me in this chat forum for piano aficionados. The people who participated in it seemed to have no social lives outside of this world, but it became obvious very quickly that they knew a ton about Melissa. And among them PIANOMAN555 was unquestionably the most knowledgeable.
NOT ON TOUR NOW.
I LEARNED THAT FROM HER SITE. I WAS HOPING THERE MIGHT BE SOME NEWLY ANNOUNCED DATES NOT POSTED YET.
THERE’S THE BENEFIT SHOW, OF COURSE.
BENEFIT SHOW?
AT BENAROYA HALL IN SEATTLE TOMORROW NIGHT. BIG CHILDREN FIRST BENEFIT. SEEMS SHE CAN’T SAY NO TO THESE THINGS.
THINK I CAN GET TICKETS?
DONT KNOW. HER TICKETS ARE VERY HOT, ESPECIALLY WHEN IT’S A ONE-OFF SHOW. CALL BOX OFFICE. IF NOTHING THERE, LET US KNOW. SOMETIMES PEOPLE HERE CAN HELP
THANKS A LOT PIANOMAN.
ANYTIME.
I felt a thrill of excitement as I left the chat room and picked up the phone. I was going to be able to see Melissa in the flesh soon.
I called the box office, but the woman there smugly told me that the show had been sold out for more than a month. I tried sweet-talking her, hoping there might be something on reserve, but that was useless.
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