distaste

I don’t have a lot going for me right now. I’m seven months into moving furniture, I have about two hundred dollars in my checking and sixty in cash the wallet. I drink more frequently than I have since before the St. Patrick’s Day, but more responsibly. And I still can’t fight the disgust I feel when people binge around me. I wonder if that will ever fade. And tonight is just another example.

It’s a nice night overall. The temperature’s running about sixty-five and I’m comfortable in just a long-sleeve, polo combination with jeans. Down here you can even see the stars in some places. The city drowns them in manufactured luminescence. We’ve driven to the main stretch of bars, which as far as I can tell consists of three of them, and have walked around the corner to an Irish-named—with a sports bar and dance club theme—local haunt. There’s no one here yet.

She’s upset, visibly, but won’t explain why. After two beers in rapid succession she divulges that her mother has been diagnosed with cancer. Again. This explains the distant look and lack of focus for most of the night, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. I wouldn’t want to either. I tell her we can go whenever she likes to watch a movie, watch television, or just sit around. Her reaction makes my stomach turn: “Naw, I want to stay. Might as well get wasted, right? I just want to get drunk.”

Right.

I know things will turn ugly. I know the night would spark the same disgust that usually drapes over me on nights like this. At first I’m as involved as anyone. I play the game of the drink-to-drink crowd. It’s easy enough; I spent three years of college keeping—or setting—the expected pace in drink. But then things turn. I start to fall back and involve myself in conversation less and less. Soon it’s almost as though I came on my own accord and just happened to sit with a crowd of strangers.

That’s when the frustration sets in. why can’t I be like that again? They seem to be having more fun as I grow uneasy. Why is it so easy for them? I can get drunk, and after the first seven months of sobriety I’ve been drunk at least three times, but it happens so rarely. It happens either with much preparation, like a party I’ve known of for months, got a ride to, and whose attendees I know on at least a passing basis, or by blind-siding me like a party bus with a friend buying rum and cokes. They drink freely and I can’t.

I know all this and yet I don’t say I want to leave. I feel bad for her. She’s in a tough spot, and though I have lost respect for her because of her reaction to her mother’s sickness, I can understand where it comes from. Everyone needs an escape. Just because I can’t do it anymore doesn’t mean I don’t want to help her out if I can.

A wedding party comes in. this doesn’t seem like the sort of bar that is frequented by anyone in formal wear. They drink and are soon loud and obnoxious. I feel the frustration setting in, but her and I move to the other room and meet a couple friends. We start playing cards. I go out early on a horrible play on mediocre cards, but don’t mind. The two friends have pounded a few in the short time they’ve been here and I’m growing tired of them.

She drinks steadily at a pace that rivals the most experienced of alcoholics. Her eyes start to droop and dart back and forth. She has the focus of a three-year-old. The card game quickly falters and she begins to cry without real provocation. She walks out quickly and, after throwing an “I don’t know” back at the drunken inquiries from the two friends, I follow her.

She’s broken down on the curb. She’s sobbing lightly but seems composed. She can’t articulate, but when I ask if she’d like to go she gives a slushy nod and attempts to stand up too quickly. I catch her arm and help her to her feet and tell her to lean on the wall behind her for a second. I go in and grab her purse and the poker chips just before the table is cleared off for the DJ. The wedding party has been reduced to five people and the two friends are the only others left in the bar.

I lead her to her car and help her in. then I start off toward her place from memory. She directs sporadically, but I manage to make it back in decent time. She stumbles out and toward the house. After I open the door she rushes to the upstairs bathroom to expunge some unfortunate choices. I lie on her bed and turn on the television to find a distraction.

This is how things end. My interest is almost completely faded. I’ve only known her for a few weeks. It was a good time and she’s fun, but I’ll always have this night in the back of my mind. Drinking to forget is tiresome and moronic. The respect I’ve lost for her now may return if I put in the effort, but I won’t. I know it’s over.

She comes back in and while she changes I use the bathroom. By the time I’m back she’s changed and chewing on some cold pizza on the chair in the corner. I decline the offer to share. She puts in a movie; I forget which, and then she crawls to bed. I sleep in my jeans and ignore the attempts at arousal. If I pretend to be asleep she’s too drunk to prove me a liar. Soon she’s lightly snoring and I’m staring at the screen.