Hatch laughs. “On a light day.”
I walk upstairs to the bathroom. I close the door behind me. I step in the shower, an old claw-footed tub that’s been jury-rigged with a cheap off-brand spigot and a faded yellow polyester curtain tipped with blotches of black mold. I turn the hot water up to just below boiling. I do my usual routine—shampoo, soap, shave, and masturbate. My hangover is minimal. One of the many advantages of drugs over alcohol. The hot water helps.
Splashhhhhh!
A shower of ice water rains down on me from above. The corner of a large saucepan is perched just above the shower curtain.
“Hatch, you’re a fucking bastard!”
As far as college music venues go, they don’t get any more venerable than the Bluebird. Since 1973 the stage has seen acts ranging from Dizzy Gillespie to Lou Reed to a reading by William S. Burroughs. It’s that fucking cool. Like most cool college bars, it reeks of cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and underage livers.
We’re early, so the Bluebird is merely crowded as opposed to crowded as fuck. Two people are leaving just as we get to the bar. Hatch orders a pitcher of Natty Light as he snags the empty seats.
I eye the stage. “Who’s playing tonight?”
Hatch shrugs. “Beats me.”
The bartender sets the pitcher down. He looks at me. “Why Store.”
“No way,” I say.
The bartender places two coasters and two empty plastic cups on the bar. “Yes way,” he says.
The Why Store. Chris Shaffer on lead vocals, acoustic twelve-string, tambourine, and harmonica. Michael D. Smith on lead guitar and backing vocals. Greg Gardner on bass and backing vocals. Charlie Bushor on drums, percussion, and congas. In my opinion, they’re the best thing to come out of the Indiana music scene since Mellencamp. The buzz is they’re about to sign with a major record label. But I doubt they’ll ever top their independent release, Welcome to the Why Store, one of my all-time favorite albums.
“Hatch, we’re staying for the goddamn Why Store.” Hatch tops off my glass, nods. “It’s your birthday.”
We ordered some chicken wings and a couple Cokes to delay the power drinking. But by the time Mack shows, we’ve still managed to down at least three pitchers and a round of Jim Beam shots.
The bartender brings us a round of tequila shots. I hand both Mack and Hatch slices of lime and place the salt shaker between them on the bar.
“Snakebites, Hank?” Mack asks, grabbing his shot glass.
“Nothing but the best.”
“I ain’t drinking that shit,” Hatch says.
“It’s my birthday,” I say, handing him his contribution to the moment. “You have to let me piss in your mouth if I want to.”
Hatch grabs the shot from my hand. “That’s what I’m about to do.”
We salt the area of our hands between our thumbs and index fingers. We lick the salt, slam our tequila, and then suck on the limes. Three Stooges-like, we each let out our own unique sound of disgust, gagging in unison.
“Fuckin’ Why Store, Mack!” I blurt out.
“So I hear.” Mack chases the tequila with a room temperature wing off my plate. He shoves the entire wing into his mouth, stripping the meat with his teeth, and swallows. Mack smells of too much cologne, which is standard for him. It looks like he just got a haircut, his dark hair close to his head but not quite buzzed. He wipes his mouth with a cocktail napkin. “You ready to get your drink on, Hank?”
Hatch pokes his head over my shoulder. He hands Mack another tequila shot. “I think you got some catching up to do, circus freak.”
Mack downs the shot. He signals the bartender. “Yeah, two more tequilas please—one for the birthday boy and one for the goofy-looking fuck behind him.”
We go two more rounds with the snakebites. The tequila starts to go down smooth. Too smooth.
The bar is now crowded as fuck. Hatch and Mack go in shifts, one at the stage, one at the bar holding our seats. It’s my birthday, so I do whatever the hell I want. Like, for instance, right before The Why Store takes the stage, I pull the roach and handful of marijuana stems I swiped out of Cash’s ashtray and shove them in my mouth. And like consuming two rounds of Sex on the Beach—heavy on the vodka—from a girl’s double-D cleavage.
The Why Store comes on stage for its first set. With his lace cuffs, purple velvet jacket, and broad-brimmed hat punctuated by a large feather, The Why Store front man, Chris Shaffer, looks like a cross between Jimi Hendrix, Long John Silver, and Huggy Bear. He starts with a new song I’ve never heard called “Father” that’s about a dad letting his son go. It’s a little too preachy if you ask me.
After “Father,” the band went mellow with “Oh Lord” and “Rosie,” followed by their signature tune that’s been getting radio play, “Everybody Holds the Future.” Chris Shaffer got on his soapbox and segued into “Your World” that led to a rant on the legalization of pot. The crowd cheered its wholehearted, red-eyed approval, which is when Hatch summoned me back to the bar. He has a couple shots waiting for me, each of them covered with a lemon slice. More snakebites.
“Bottoms up, Fitzy!” Hatch hands me a salt shaker. I salt my hand. He hands me the first shot. I peel the lemon off the top, lick the salt, and shoot the tequila. I stick the lemon in my mouth.
“Next!” Hatch already has the second shot in his hand. He again hands me the shot. I do the same as before—salt, shot, lemon.
The second shot hits the back of my throat. It’s not tequila. My swallow is forced. My mouth is on fire.
Hatch starts laughing. “Say ‘ello to my lit’il fren.”
“What did you just give me, fucker?”
“A Prairie Fire.”
“What’s that?”
“Bacardi 151 and Tabasco sauce.”
Between the burrito I had on the way over here and the chicken wings, I don’t know which comes up first. Regardless, the bar—the actual hardwood bar itself—is soon covered by both food items in various stages of digestion. So much for the coasters.
Even drunk, I’m still pretty quick on my feet. Just as I finish throwing up, I drop to my knees and crawl on the floor alongside the bar.
I pop up at the end of the bar and start to make a break for the restroom.
I see out of the corner of my eye the bartender standing on top of a stool. He points at me. “That’s the fucking puker right there!”
“Let’s go, son.” The bouncer’s hand is on my collar just as I get halfway into the restroom. He’s what you would expect in a bouncer—big and bald, one diamond-stud earring, a painted-on shirt. He looks like Mr. Clean’s evil twin.
Hatch and Mack block my exit. They beg for clemency.
“Sorry, fellas. You guys are welcome to stay, but I think your friend here has had enough.”
“Wait a second.” I have an idea, emboldened for no good reason. “What if I offered to clean up my mess?”
Mr. Clean smiles, loosening his grip on my collar. He seems struck by the novelty of my offer. He lets go of me. “Stay here.”
We stand just inside the entrance to the Bluebird. A procession of college students, some twenty-one, others trying to pass for it, hand over their IDs for inspection. Mack shakes his head. “Way to go, Hank.”
“Don’t yell at me.” I push Hatch in the chest. “Talk to this asshole who made me drink gasoline.”
Laughing again, Hatch recounts the story to Mack. Mack punches Hatch in the shoulder. “That’s still almost worth getting kicked out.” He’s laughing now, too. “Dude, you horked on the fucking bar!”
“I know, Mack. I was there.” I can feel the post-puke sweats coming on. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. “That shot didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
“Here!” Mr. Clean is back. He shoves a rag and mop in my face. “Go for it, buddy.”
I walk to the scene of
the crime, halfway down the bar. Mr. Clean is right behind me, followed by Hatch and Mack.
The bartender is waiting for me when I arrive. If I’m being honest, he doesn’t look happy to see me. “Get to work,” he says, turning his back.
The crowd at the bar gives me a wide berth, much of the vomit is still strewn about on several chairs, an ashtray, and three abandoned cocktails now spiked with stomach acid. I look left, look right, and catch a whiff of my own bile.
“Yeah…” I sigh. I look right again, look left again. Hatch and Mack are getting a kick out of this. The bartender is not. Draping the rag over one of the barstools, I try not to smile at Mr. Clean but can’t help myself. I rest the mop against the edge of the bar, throw my hands up in the air like someone has a gun to my back. “You can go ahead and kick my ass out of here.”
Chapter forty-five
Mack is too impatient to wait in any bar lines, and Hatch and I are too drunk to stand in one place without falling over. We walk down the street to Big Red Liquors, convinced a couple more six-packs “will clear our heads.”
I approach the ATM outside the liquor store knowing I have less than three dollars in my account. I type in my password. The screen gives me several options, including asking whether I want to take money from checking, savings, or do a “Fast $50” transaction.
Mack reaches over my shoulder and pushes the button. “Fast fifty, Hank!”
“You fuckhead. I don’t have five dollars to my name, let alone fif—”
I am interrupted by the sound of the ATM spitting out two twenties and a ten. I grab the money. I’m thirsty, and what’s one more overdraft notice?
We walk into Big Red Liquors and make our selection. I somehow get roped into paying for all of it. Two six-packs somehow becomes two cases. I’m not even out the door when I have second thoughts about my spending spree.
“No ice, no cooler, and we leave the goddamn liquor store with forty-eight cold beers. You tell me, Mack, how in the hell are we going to drink all these tonight?”
“Relax. We’re going to a party.”
“A party?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Sheila’s place. I even hear Laura’s going to be there.”
“Fuck you.” I sit the beers down on the ground, fold my arms.
“Come on, Hank. It’ll be fun.”
I go Bender on him. “No, Mack, fuck you!”
Hatch steps in. “Fitzy has a point, Mack. It’s his birthday, and you’re taking him to see Laura Elliot?”
“Come on, guys, it’ll be fun,” Mack says. “The whole gang is there.”
“Where’s Ian?”
Mack cocks his head. “Who?”
“Laura’s boyfriend.”
Hatch mimics Mack, monkey-like. “Her what?”
I reach down and pick up the two cases of beer. “Fuck it, never mind. Let’s just do this.”
In the grand tradition of fate not even giving me a chance to catch my breath, Laura answers the door to Sheila’s apartment. She’s wearing a pair of form-fitting jeans and a Bucknell University sweatshirt capped by a smile that either looks shit-faced or happy to see me.
“Hey, fellas!” Laura hugs Mack. Hatch grabs the cases of beer out of my hands, walks right by her. She stops me, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.
“Hope you don’t mind us crashing your party,” I say.
Laura shuts the door behind me. “I heard you and Mack were hanging out this weekend. I was hoping he’d talk you into it.”
“You were?”
Laura smiles and gives me another kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Hank.”
I was barely in the apartment and already working on a solid trifecta: the drunk ex-girlfriend hitting on me, the drunk ex-boyfriend not doing a whole lot to dissuade the overtures, and the alcoholic-in-training best friend handing me a beer with a hole cut out of the bottom yelling…
“Shotgun!”
“Goddamnit, Hatch.”
“Come on, Fitzy.”
“Go into the kitchen with that mess!” Laura pushes us both out of the family room.
The sink is already piled high with at least a dozen holed-out aluminum cans. We both shotgun a beer.
And then a second beer.
And then a third.
Laura leads a round of Thumper in the dining room. It’s a simple drinking game. The emcee—in this case, Laura—starts the round by asking, “What’s the name of the game?” To which the group shouts back in unison while drumming their hands on the table, “Thumper!” Laura asks, “How do we play it?” The group responds, “Down and dirty!” Laura asks, “Why do we play it?” And then the group smacks their hands on the table three times in synch with the last three words, “To get fucked up!” Laura gives her hand signal—in this case, a head-bobbing imitation of going down on someone—then flashes a hand signal of another person in the group, after which that person responds with his or her hand signal, then flashes another person in the group his or her signal, and so on and so on until someone messes up. The first person to mess up drinks and gets to start the next round.
I play two quick rounds before realizing I have no business playing drinking games. My hand signal is simulating double-handed masturbation, a move tinged with both irony, given my average penis size, and revelation, given my above-average penchant for masturbation. Hatch calls me a “lightweight pussy.” He tells me to “take off my skirt and strap on a pair.”
“Southern Cross” by Crosby, Stills & Nash transitions into Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” on the stereo.
Hatch jumps up. “Ohhh shit, Fitzy!”
The game of Thumper is suspended. The room divides in accordance with proper Meatloaf etiquette—boys on one side, girls on the other. Boys go first, remembering once again every little thing as if it happened only yesterday, followed by the girls leaving no doubt in the discussion about their respective ages and general lack of clothing.
The boys and girls go back and forth with two long solos, pausing at the bridge—an indiscernible radio broadcast of a baseball game no one knows the words to that allows for drink refills, a few drags off your cigarette, and sneaking your tongue into your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.
We trade two more long solos. This segues into the guys wanting to sleep on it rather than just tell the girls they love them—you know, that polyphonic bit in which the dueling genders are tasked with singing at the same time but to different lyrics, resulting in a block of drunken noise. Enthusiasm trumps vocal ineptitude on a grand scale, rising to a testosterone-and estrogen-fueled crescendo of everyone swearing eternal love to their God on their mother’s grave.
It’s going on three in the morning now. Hatch and Mack are passed out on the floor in Sheila’s bedroom. I’ve found my way to Sheila’s queen bed. With Laura.
“Some party,” I say.
“Sure was,” Laura says.
We’re both still clothed, albeit face-to-face with our arms and legs wrapped around one another. We’d been making out for about a half hour when Laura decided to take off her bra. That was about the same time I decided I was having sex with her.
“Confession time, Hank.”
“Go for it.”
“I have missed your soft, cushy lips.”
Let the record show these two adjectives have been explicitly directed at my lips by at least three different women. Next to maybe my hair, my lips are my best feature.
“And they’ve missed you.” I kiss her again for good measure.
She pulls away. “Hank, what are we doing here?”
“I think that’s kind of obvious.”
“Don’t start getting all riled up.” She pulls my hand out from under her shirt just as I squeeze her right breast. “You’re not getting any tonight.”
Laura is pretending
she doesn’t want this to happen. Fine, I’ll play along. “How’s Ian doing these days?” I say.
Laura puts her right index finger on my lips. “Can we please spend a night together without fighting?”
“Who’s fighting? I think I’m entitled to know whether I’m about to be a home wrecker.”
“I see you’re still overconfident in your pick-up skills.” She again pulls my right hand out from under her shirt. This time I manage to squeeze her left breast. “Nobody’s wrecking any home tonight, Hank.”
“So you’re not dating Ian?”
“I didn’t say that. The short story is he proposed, I got scared.”
“How scared?”
“Scared enough to take a semester off from grad school at Bucknell.”
“Then that’s it for you two?”
“Hardly. We’re just spending some time apart. I need some space, some time back with old friends and family to sort out some things. I still very much love Ian.”
“No offense, but you have an interesting way of showing it.”
“Let’s be honest here.” Laura smiles. She’s drunk, very drunk. “Will anything I say stop you from trying to get in my pants?”
“Probably not…” My words dissolve into a small kiss on her throat, just under her chin. Laura takes a breath, a deep inhalation that renders her transparent. A brazen move on my part, but she responds.
Laura runs her fingers along my face, brushing my hair behind my ears. “Remember when your dad serenaded me on my birthday?”
“How could I forget?” I say. “Hard to believe it’s been four years since then. You’re what, twenty-three now?”
“Almost.”
“You’re practically my sugar mama.”
“Hilarious, Hank.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Anyway, that serenade was the best birthday present of my almost twenty-three-year-old life.”
“Next to this you mean?” I grab the plush, long-eared elephant from the foot of the bed. “What’s this doing here?”
Laura wrests the elephant away from me. “I take Dumbo pretty much wherever I go.”
Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride Page 25