Unwilling to talk anymore, I stare down at my glass. The orange-yellowish liquid brings out a conflict of emotions inside of me. When I was a kid, I didn’t know what exactly my dad drank. It was mostly beer, but every once in a while, every third Friday of the month to be exact, he’d return home with something special. I never read the label. I just remembered the bottle. The black label with white letters. The orange-yellowish liquid. He’d slump down into a worn out armchair that belonged in the trash; that’s actually where my mom picked it up from. Someone else threw it away, but it was good enough for us. Then, he’d take the remote, like it was the extension of his hand, and just stare into that box until he could drink no more.

  My mom would return late from her second job; day time waitress, night time nurse. The small hospital downtown went out of its way to accommodate her with shifts, because my mom was a sweet lady. Real pretty, too, but that was before her life was ruined by a drunkard who never brought home any money. Only trouble.

  I guess you could say we were lucky. He never beat us. He never raised his hand to us. He was a calm drunkard. You leave him to his booze, and he was a happy camper. As for the bills and whether we’d have electricity or heating, well… that wasn’t his concern. It all fell on my mom’s shoulders. When she died, I remember thinking how she’d shrunk. The last few years of her life, that leech sucked her dry. He sucked all the joy out of her. So, yeah, he never raised his hand to her, but he killed her alright. When she died, I cried alone, just like she had. I cried for her, for myself, for the life she could have had if she didn’t give birth to me and if she left that good for nothing son of a bitch I call my father. When he died, I didn’t cry. I doubt there was anyone alive who’d mourn the death of an old, irrelevant drunkard. Not even his son. It was a rainy day. I remember stepping into a muddy puddle. The dirty water had an orange hue, just like the booze that drove him to his grave.

  I quickly take my drink and down it. It’s easier not to look at it. But, an empty glass is equally bad to look at. Sometimes, I wonder what my mom would say if she saw me now. She’s been dead 10 years, God rest her soul. Would she be upset I divorced the only woman I thought could ever love me? Would she be upset I haven’t given her any grandchildren yet? So many regrets. So many squandered chances at happiness.

  The small band starts to play, and the people huddle together. I watch Clara with Dan. The worst thing is, they don’t look half bad together. She’s got that gleam in her eyes women in love have. Dan just looks like he’s got a broomstick up his ass. No rhythm at all.

  I motion at the waiter to bring me another scotch. He returns with one within seconds. A decent amount of time passes by, and I fight the urge to just whip out my phone and chat the night away with whoever is available. I don’t care. Just as long as I don’t have to grin at every familiar face here, who are probably wondering what the Hell I’m doing here. An ex-husband shouldn’t be present at his ex-wife’s wedding to someone else. That’s pulp fiction crap. I guess everyone’s just waiting for the moment when either me or Dan snap and we attack each other, fighting for Clara. I chuckle to myself at the thought.

  At that moment, I see her approaching me, wiggling her hips in that dress to the left, then to the right. She looks like an angel. Would it be inappropriate of me to tell her? She beckons me to get up and come dance with her.

  “No, I don’t do that shit, you know that,” I shake my head, laughing.

  She comes all the way to me and takes me by the hands. I get off my ass and allow her to walk me to the little part of the backyard that serves as a dance floor.

  “You can’t say no to me, I’m the bride,” she smiles, as she puts her hand on my shoulder, and cups my other hand with hers.

  “So, that’s twice now you’ve used that excuse,” I smirk.

  “Sue me,” she giggles.

  “I might.”

  By this point, I’m focused only on her. I actually managed to forget all those faces staring at us, expecting trouble.

  “I’m really happy you came Brook,” she tells me, almost whispering, as we move to the music. I can’t see Danny boy anywhere, not that I care. But, he might, as I’m dancing with his wife. And, I had her first.

  “No worries.”

  “You could have brought someone, you know.”

  “There’s no one to bring,” I’m honest. Why lie?

  “You haven’t found anyone?”

  “I already took a ride on the wedding train, and I’m off for good,” I tell her, with a smile.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, I do. I plan on doing only two things for the rest of my life; tattooing, and fucking nameless faces.”

  She frowns. She doesn't think it’s that funny, but I do. It’s hilarious, partly because it’s true. Sure, I sometimes think it’d be nice to have someone, but in the end, shit never lasts. Why get attached in the first place only to get your heart broken? Fuck that.

  “I’m serious,” she tells me.

  “So am I.”

  “But, you’re such a nice guy. You could make some girl very happy. And, she could make you happy, too.”

  “I could get a dog if I’m that hungry for companionship,” I reply, with a smirk, swooning her. “But, I’m not. I’m fine. Really.”

  “I worry about you,” she continues. “I care about you and I want you to be happy.”

  “I know,” I let go of her hand, and pinch her cheek. “And I do appreciate it. But, some people just aren’t meant to be happy. Not in a way everyone expects them to be. And, that’s OK.”

  We finish our dance in silence, but we’re both enjoying it. I remember that feeling when it was us against the world. Now, it’s just me. And, like I said, that’s OK. When the music pauses, I kiss her hand. She blushes a little. Dan approaches us, and I purposely take her hand and put it into his.

  “Take good care of this one, Danny boy,” I tell him. “She’s a keeper.”

  I don’t hang around to hear what he has to say to that. I elbow my way back to the table, grab my drink and head on outside into the street. It’s a small, narrow street, with barely any traffic. It’s late at night already, so there’s no one there. Only the crickets are keeping me company. The music has died down a little. Clara has always been a stickler for rules. I’m guessing midnight is the time they need to keep it down. That also means this nightmare will soon be over. Then again, it wasn’t that bad. I had all sorts of horror scenarios in my mind before arriving, but it was totally fine. A little embarrassment never hurt anyone. If anything, it makes you more thick-skinned.

  I sit down on the curb, lifting my trouser legs a little. The lights in the house opposite us are on. I can see a huge TV screen, open blinds allowing a full view. They’ve got a nice, manicured lawn. White picket fence. A little flower bed. The whole nine yards. It’s what Clara always wanted. It’s also what I could never give her. In a way, it’s good that it turned out like this. She’s happier. I’m also happier. Sometimes, people who still care about each other are happier apart than together, because they yearn for different things. And, it’s not fair for either side to sacrifices their wishes.

  I fumble in my pocket and find my cigarettes. The lighter’s there, too. I take a deep, satisfying puff, then exhale slowly. One more hour of this, and I’ll be able to go home with a clear conscience.

  Chapter 4

  “You know, those can kill you,” I suddenly hear a faintly familiar voice behind me. I turn around, and I see a face I only remember with pimples and the first appearance of a beard. That face is cleanly shaven now, with only a few marks of that embarrassing teenage period that haunts us all in high school.

  “A fucking flu can kill you nowadays, so why not enjoy it while you can?” I grin, as Evan sits down on the curb next to me.

  “Can I bum one of those?”

  I take out the packet again, and offer him one. I light it for him, too.

  “Last time I saw you, you were just a pimpled kid, too young to smoke,” I tell him, eyeing him from head to toe, as if he was a ghost or something. “Look at you now. What are you, 20 something?”

  “Yeah,” he exhales loudly, skillfully, like an old experienced smoker. “Twenty five.”

  I whistle. “And, you got your sister’s good looks, you lucky bastard. I bet girls are lining up for a chance with you, huh?”

  He seems a little embarrassed, and looks down at his feet. I realize then he’s wearing a pair of black canvas Converse shoes. You gotta love a rebel.

  “So, tell me about you,” I continue. “What have you been up to?”

  We both seem to look at the lit up window. A lady walks over, casting an elongated shadow, then pulls the blinds on us. No more show for you, peeping Toms. I smile, wondering if she’s got something to hide. It seems everyone has something. Some skeleton in the closet. But, usually, it’s not that important. To others, I mean. To whoever is keeping the secret, it’s the most difficult thing in the world. But, the rest of the world usually doesn’t mind. The planet keeps on spinning, despite a few rattles of bones in someone’s meaningless closet.

  “Finishing college,” he explains, taking a puff. The cigarette burns slowly in the darkness. “Psych major.”

  “Now, that’s something. Bet the old man’s happy.”

  “You’d think,” he rolls his eyes. “He wanted me to go to law school.”

  “Big expectations, huh?”

  “The biggest,” he nods. “But, I don’t want to be a lawyer. I wanna make a difference, you know.” He pauses a little. I can hear the doubt in his voice. He knows that what he wants is almost unattainable. But, if everyone stopped trying, we’d be nowhere.

  “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” he asks me, looking for reassurance.

  “Not stupid at all,” I use my most confident grown up voice.

  I know that feeling. The little worm of doubt that keeps eating you up on the inside, because no matter what you do, you’ll always think you’re not good enough, because others keep forcing this view on you. It’s too late for me, but maybe it’s not too late for him.

  “”I think it’s people like you, people who want to make a change and believe they can, who really make this Hell of a planet worth living on.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely,” I nod, taking a sip of my drink. “You wanna be a psychologist, psychiatrist, whatever the fuck psyche thing you want, then you do it. And, you let nothing stand in your way.”

  Now, at this point, I know I’m drunk. I’m not usually this persuasive. But, I like the guy. I’ve always liked him. I still remember when he visited us a few times, and he’d have a shiner. He never told us exactly what happened, but we knew that he was being picked on at school. He never whined about it. He never said who it was. He’d just shrug his shoulders and keep on keeping on. You had to give it to the little soldier. I remember Clara being out of her mind, but I kept telling her that he needed to fight this one on his own. That’s the only way you can end a bully tirade. You fight back. You show them you’re not afraid, no matter what the consequences are. You don’t back down. You stand your ground.

  That was what I told him that time, about ten years ago. I told him to stand up for himself. He never came to visit us after that. Clara and I got separated at first, then the divorce followed. Evan never came to tell us what happened. Was he still being bullied at school or did he manage to stop it? I still wonder that now, as I’m looking at the man he grew into, this young man full of so much hope about the world, about the future. How do you tell him it’s all shit?

  “So, what do you think about Dan?” he catches me off guard with this question.

  I know what he’s trying to do. He doesn’t want to talk about himself anymore. Well, I’m a little drunk here, so I don’t mind sharing a few honest ones about Danny boy.

  “What’s there to think?” I ask. “He’s the what you see is what you get kinda guy.”

  “I think Clara likes him.”

  “Well, she better,” I burst into loud laughter. “She married him.”

  “Well, she married you, but she didn’t like you all that much.”

  When he tells me this, I almost spill my drink. He’s totally right. She always used to tell me that. She didn’t like me, but she loved me. She was crazy about me. I guess the liking finally did us in.

  “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” I ask him, clinking my glass against his, and then downing it whole. “Yup, she didn’t like me all that much. I’m not really a likeable guy, you could say. We were crazy about each other. Like, we couldn’t go a day without seeing each other, couldn’t keep our hands off each other. That sort of thing. Now, that’s OK when you’re young and naive, and you think you got the world by the balls. You don’t give a flying fuck if what you’re feeling is socially acceptable or not. You feel it, and it’s a good feeling, so that’s all that matters to you. But, when you’re old, like we are now, there’s no room for craziness. You want comfort. Safety. Some kind of security with a partner you can count on. That’s what will rock your chair on the porch when you’re 80. Not craziness.”

  I take a deep breath finishing my long monologue. Honestly, I have no idea where half of that came from, but I know it’s true. I’ve grown tired of blurry faces to wake up to, and long nights at the bar. I’m way too fucking old for that.

  “Do you still love her?” he asks quickly, sharply.

  He hits the bull’s eye with this one. It’s the million dollar question, I guess. Everyone I know has been asking me about this. How the Hell do you stay close friends with an ex? An ex-wife at that? I’m guessing Clara is asked the same question. My answer is that you just forget that you used to see that person naked, and you start seeing them as someone close, like a sister or a brother. There is more respect than there was before, and that’s one of the crucial things in a healthy relationship. Not love. Not craziness. Not common interests. Just simple respect. You got that, and you got yourself a good relationship.

  I finish my cigarette, drop it to the ground, and then stomp the last remnants of the ember. I could have just walked away from this question, or just refuse to reply. But, alcohol is a funny thing. It gives you balls when yours have squirmed up. It makes you feel invincible, like nothing you say could return to bite you in the ass.

  “Your sister is a perfect example of a girl you could never fully get over,” I start, all philosophical. “You never fully stop loving her because she is who she is. She’s no femme fatale. She’s no vamp. But, she knows how to get under your skin. You want to protect her from the world, and keep her as she is, unspoiled and lovely.” I pause a little, wondering if I’ve crossed the line. But, what the fuck. The dam is broken now. Might as well let all the water out. “But, I know we’re better as friends. She knows this, too. We still care about each other a lot. I think we always will. I guess Danny boy will have to get used to this, huh?” I chuckle. “But, if you’re asking me whether I’d get back together with her, then the answer is no. Absolutely fucking not.” I end with a loud roll in the aisles.

  Somehow, he seems happy with my reply. He takes a sip of his own drink, clicking his lips in enjoyment.

  “My glass is empty. Let’s get something to drink,” I tell him, as we both get up and head back inside.

  Chapter 5

  After about two more hours of looking at other people have fun, I figured it’s time to leave. I politely say goodbye to everyone I know, starting with the ex-in-laws. Clara’s mother has always been kind to me, but I’m guessing it’s just how she is. You have people with whom politeness seems something natural, ingrained. Unlike with her husband, Paul. The guy with the infamous unibrow, whom I’ve seen smile maybe a handful of times. Still, I can’t say he ever did me any harm. We just never got so close that we wanted to have a beer together or talk about fishing. I guess that’s because I hate fishing. And, he’s more of a hunting type. I’d rather not kill animals, unless my own life is threatened.

  I give the ravishing Clara a warm hug, promising her that we’d get together soon and catch up. I couldn’t help but see the glance Danny boy threw me, but I pretend not to notice. He looks like the kind of guy who’s used to going unrecognized. Besides, if he’s jealous of me, then that’s Clara’s problem to solve, not mine.

  I look around, trying to find Evan, but he’s nowhere to be seen. It’s pretty dark now, but the lanterns are shining enough light on smiling faces and dancing bodies. I’d rather not elbow my way through those, so I grab my blazer and head outside, thinking I’d just call a cab to take me back to the hotel. I’ll send my regards to Evan through Clara. No big deal.

  As I grab my phone, I hear a voice behind me.

  “Hey, leaving so soon?” I see Evan, slightly flushed.

  “Yeah,” I nod, shrugging. “These old bones need some rest.”

  “I feel like we didn’t get a chance to catch up properly,” he tells me, and I see that same teenage kid with a bruised eye, unwilling to tattle, but wanting something, something he still didn’t know how to voice. “Listen, there’s this bar on the outskirts, it should still be open. Maybe you’d like to get a drink with me?”

  All sorts of excuses start swarming inside my mind. I’m fucking tired of grinning at people I don’t give two shits about. The booze was lousy, the music even worse. I could be in a bed in less than half an hour, dozing off. Plus, the following week is filled with tattoo appointments, some so complicated that I’ll be drawing all day long. That usually strains my eyes to such an extent that I find it difficult to fall asleep, and need to use some special drops the doc gave me.

 

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