Alcohol can tell your history. The first time I ever drank hard alcohol was at one of my parent’s friend’s parties. They lived up on a hill on the south side of town next to miles of sprawling BLM land filled with piñon trees and cacti. While everyone was enjoying the nice weather and the mountain vistas, my sister, her friend, and I put some brandy in a large Dixie cup and informed our parents that we were walking back to town. It was the middle of summer and the day was long, we walked late in the evening in full daylight each taking sips with a quick shake of the head after each one.
That would be one of the last times I drank hard alcohol in moderation. I was soon thereafter awarded a scholarship to go to Europe and within a month found myself drinking pot-stilled vodka mixed with Coca Cola until I vomited, but even that wouldn’t keep me from ordering another drink. I moved back to the states for an unusual fondness for McCormick’s vodka mixed with orange soda. As were my platform shoes and short haircut short lived once back in the States, my palette changed for a partiality for micro-brews and marijuana. One day some unusually clear thinking showed me that I was spending quite a lot on beer and how that could be better spent on clothing and long trips. I quit drinking for the most part and then almost entirely when I met a guy who viewed alcohol almost in the same context as my Southern Baptist grandmother, that it was only put on this earth to make you weak. I was doing pull ups off the door jams at this point, so any chance of fragility was out of the question.
I left college and moved to the city where I was surrounded by people that drank as a hobby, a sport, and some for exercise. I started hanging out more and jumped on the cosmo craze, feeling hip with my pink sips as I developed an interest in designer clothing, chef-inspired cuisine, and started to understand the difference between a viognier and a barolo. I soon after took on a cheerful alcoholic as a boyfriend who turned me onto Crown Royal and expensive bottles of champagne. It is with this I left a three-year relationship when I was making some of the better money of my life, with nothing more than a few photos of well-dressed drunk people in fancy restaurants.
After a move to the Virgin Islands and a realization that I needed to regain a sense of dignity and pride, I moved back to my hometown. Where I met my husband who showed me the delights of Jameson. I then found Jameson 12 at an Irish pub in Phoenix, and for now that is my staple drink. I like looking at the back of a bar and seeing a bottle that reminds me of a certain time, or a certain place, or a certain friend. I just wonder how that history is for some people, for example my regular D.
D is in his late 40’s, tall and thin with a long blond ponytail. He is always very cheerful and loves to tell everybody what good energy they have. He is the kind of guy who keeps crystals in his pocket and advises to have your tarot read in times of trouble. He usually never has any trouble himself, since his father sold a winery in Napa in the 70s and D lives off of that money. Thus, D has never had to work and lives about 25 miles out of town on a ranch that has an abundance of housecats and no other animals.
Obviously, money is not an issue to D. He has always been an extremely generous tipper and a good spender. Over the months I’ve come to learn that he is engaged to a woman S, who waits tables two nights a week at a French bistro in the town that they live near. He always speaks very highly of her and how they were getting married in Hawaii in February. About two months ago, he brought S in for dinner. She is the same age as he, extremely beautiful, nice, and charming. S and D started coming for dinner once a week, always sitting at the bar, always ordering the same NxNW glass of cabernet and ending with the same Italian coffee drink.
Last Friday, D was in alone. Which is not unusual. He had two Italian coffees and his tab was $15. He paid with a credit card and then left $100 as the tip. I didn’t look at the slip and just put it in the drawer. G.I. Joe might have thought that knowledge is half the battle but when it comes to what people have tipped me, I’ve found that I cannot help but lose my enthusiasm to poor tippers and furthermore I think it’s tacky to look at the charge slips as you pick them up.
A few moments later, he calls me over with the curl of his pointer finger and says, “you didn’t see the tip, did you?” To which I replied no, I didn’t. He says, I left you $100 and then I feel like he is trying to kiss me from over the bar. I turn my head and say thank you but wonder if he thinks I am one of the cheapest prostitutes in Bend. I saw Cathouse, $100 won’t even get you a hand job. But the money wasn’t really for me; it was to impress the smart-looking blond girl sitting next to him. He proceeded to place his arm around her, rub her back, and kiss her on the neck. He bought another round of drinks, this time Voyant Chai liqueur, and this time left $50 on it. He left with this blond girl and put on a show of kissing her hard against his truck outside of the restaurant.
At 1:45 a.m. the phone rings. The phone never rings this late into the night, I am always alone now with the doors locked counting money or putting stuff away. So to hear anything in the building is shocking. I answer it. S asks me if I’ve seen D becaise she is concerned that she hasn’t seen him all night. I told her he left the bar around 10 p.m. I was surprised that he was fucking around on her; surprised that this woman was calling in the middle of the night, surprised that somehow I was in the middle of their fuck-up-ed-ness. But unfortunately, I am numb to people having affairs, people cheating with their wives’ best friends, and bar owners fucking their staff while their wives do the books in the backroom.
D & S came in the next night. S told me how D had fallen asleep in the truck in the driveway and how she didn’t find him until morning. I had to turn around and roll my eyes. S was looking at the back of the bar and saw the tall orange bottle that the Voyant comes in and asked about it. I told her it was Chai Tea Liqueur and that it was very yummy and creamy with cinnamon and nutmeg, like putting the flavor of Christmas in a bottle. She asked D if he wanted to try it and he says no. So just like I think of fun times, friends, and exquisite meals I’ve had when I scan across the bar, I just hope for D’s sake that they don’t have Voyant at the bar on his wedding day.
Dear Abby:
My husband is a liar and a cheat. He has cheated on me from the beginning, and when I confront him, he denies everything. What's worse, everyone knows he cheats on me. It is so humiliating. Also, since he lost his job over three years ago he hasn't even looked for a new one. All he does is buy cigars and cruise around and bullshit with his pals, while I have to work to pay the bills. Since our daughter went away to college he doesn't even pretend to like me and hints that I am a lesbian.
What should I do?
Signed,
Clueless
Dear Clueless:
Grow up and dump him. For Pete's sake, you don't need him anymore. You're a United States Senator from New York, act like it!
