"Why is it . . ." Chris tried to articulate himself, in spite of the three double shots of Jagermeister he had consumed in twenty minutes. "Why is it that women can, you know? You know what I'm saying, right?" A man whom Chris had just met moments before received the brunt of the 320 pound, 25 year old's pat on the shoulder. His right hand lingered there for a moment, waiting for a response. The bartender wiped down the area in front of the two drunken men, cleaning up sloshed spills from jittery hands. In the background: boisterous jeering of hometown fans watching their local basketball team suffer another defeat, chattering thuds of quarters bouncing out of a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, the call of the keno operator from across the hall, "21, 46, 12, 18."
"I don't know, man. I don't know." The elderly, seemingly underfed gentleman responded, three-quarters of the way to blacking out on yet another productive Saturday evening, not actually knowing at all what Chris was talking about.
In agreement, Chris faced his empty glass once again. "Yep. Exactly. Who knows?" With a stern stare into the tumbler bare, a shout sprouted from Chris' lips, "Mac! Another round, please."
Not realizing how interested he really was, the elderly gentleman asked, "She just up and left you? No warning; no nothing?"
Whilst inebriated, Chris rambled with gloom whenever the opportunity arose to wallow in his own self-loathing. "Three weeks ago . . . . . . . . . .
Three weeks ago . . . . . . . . . .
Three weeks ago . . . . . . . . . .
Three weeks ago I decided to pay Crystal a surprise visit. This particular day happened to be our six-month anniversary, so I decided to drop off a dozen roses. This particular day happened to be the day I caught her with another man, though I have yet to actually meet this person.
I walked up three flights of stairs; by the time I reached her door, I was panting and sweating. My t-shirt stuck to my skin; my dark brown hair hung down below my eyes. I took a minute to compose myself, to gather my breaths, to brush aside my hair, then I knocked on the door. At 9:30 in the morning, I knew she was home and awake, since she worked weekdays on the 10:30 shift at Denny's. I had finished my shift at the truck-yard three hours earlier, so I stayed up all night, planning how we could spend our day together. I figured she could call in sick and we could spend the day in the park, considering that the sun shone through no clouds on this particular day.
After a few loud raps on the door, I noticed that it was taking her longer than usual to answer. I pounded even louder, growing concerned for her safety. After about another full minute (a segment of time feeling like an hour) Crystal answered the door with a towel around her body, dirty blonde hair a tangled mess about her shoulders. I inquired about her status and she replied that she was fine.
"I just got out of the shower, that's what took me so long."
"But, your hair isn't wet." I looked at her with a quizzical gaze, noticing her cheeks become ablaze.
She had no reply, but in my haste, I quickly applied a smile and handed her the flowers, exclaiming, "Happy Anniversary!"
Her shoulders slumped in relaxation, a breath of relief fled her mouth. A patronizing grin followed with a meager, "Ohhh, you remembered," in tow. Her unfamiliarity with this momentous occasion disturbs me now, but failed to register at the time.
I told her to call her boss, alerting him of her sudden illness, so we could spend the day together, but she seemed all too eager to participate in her waitressing duties. She asked me to return later that night, for a candlelit supper in her apartment after her shift ended, but I couldn't wait that long to see her again. I decided to wait out in my car and follow her to work, spending the day drinking coffee and basking in her loving presence.
Twenty minutes after I departed her abode, while sitting in my Chevy Blazer, I spotted a male figure trailing Crystal down the stairs. I could not make out his face as he trundled over to the passenger side of her Ford Focus, but I knew that this anniversary would be our last. I couldn't believe it . . . . . . . . . .
I couldn't believe it . . . . . . . . . .
I couldn't believe it . . . . . . . . . .
"I couldn't believe it. I mean, how could she do that to me on our . . . on our special fucking day?! I tell you, I still followed her to that Denny's and I let her have it right out in there in front of everybody. Her boss was threatening to call the cops and I was all, 'You know what? You go ahead and you call the cops, because I don't care!'" The Jagermeister swallowed more smoothly the sixth and seventh times he shot it down his throat. After that point, the bartender decided to cut him off, thus relieving the elderly gentleman of any more sprawling, incoherent storytelling.
Chris decided, instead of returning home to his parents' house empty-handed, he would try himself at intoxicated Black Jack. With the earth below wobbling ever so slightly, Chris managed with care to arrive at a nearby stool at a five-dollar black jack table. The man to his left pursed an unlit cigar between his jagged teeth, smirking like a Texan out of water with his stack of red chips piled fist-high on the table in front of him. Chris, through half-opened eyelids, observed the man doff his cowboy hat in his direction, introducing himself as Roy Jameson, tire-salesman from Oklahoma turned Internet tycoon on the west coast, doing a bit of gambling on the night before his daughter's wedding.
Chris introduced himself with a glower, but soon softened at the glee of the lucky Southern gent. After winning a couple of hands of his own, Chris returned to his usual talkative self.
"You know, mister. You're all right. I should take after you, you know? You don't care whether good or bad . . . ness happens to you. Just don't care. Let it roll off your back. That's the way to live life."
"I hear that. Don't want to obsess over powers you can't very well control." Roy motioned to a cocktail waitress wearing dark nylons and a ponytail, carrying a round tray with five empty glasses and a pad of paper on it.
"What'll you boys have?"
"What's yer pleasure, son?"
"How about just a beer? I've had enough of that other stuff." Chris smacked his lips and ordered for a hit from the dealer. 21.
"You know, I wish I had this kind of luck on mine and Crystal's anniversary three weeks ago. I tell you, nothing went right . . . . . . . . . .
nothing went right . . . . . . . . . .
nothing went right . . . . . . . . . .
Nothing went right that entire day. After I made that terrible scene in the restaurant, I decided to return to her apartment and wait in front of her door for her return. Eight of the longest, most excruciating hours followed, where I questioned my manhood, my ability to love, my entire sense of self.
Then, I began to obsess over what I deemed the "good times." Like the days when we were first acquainting ourselves. Crystal genuinely appreciated me for my sense of humor - this first drew her attention in my direction. After a few weeks of casual and post-casual friendship, as I grew more at ease in her company, my true self started to rise to the surface.
I remembered our first fight. It occurred two months into our relationship. Over this period, my drinking began to increase. I didn't want to reveal my weakness to her until she had accepted me. On this evening, I had been drinking a few beers, I'd say six at the maximum, in two hours. Nothing to really tip the balances, but enough of a buzz to affect judgment. We fashioned an appointment to attend a film showing at the local university, but she never called to tell me when she would be home from work. My temper got the better of me when we missed our engagement. Perhaps, if I had been completely sober, I wouldn't have made it such a momentous ordeal. Later in our relationship, she would tell me that I would continue to bring up this same fight whenever I drank enough not to remember. Over the months, this occurrence frequented our relationship like patrons of Mc Donald's. My temper really escalated when she called me three hours late.
"Chris, are you there? It's me. I'm so sorry . . . . . . . . . .
I'm so sorry . . . . . . . . . .
I'm so sorry . . . . . . . . . .
"'I'm so sorry.' Right! I'll bet."
"Well, don't leave me hangin' man! Why was she so late?" Roy took great interest in this story, thankfully believing that such sorrows would never occur to him or his loved-ones.
"She gave me some bull about how her car broke down and this guy from work stayed late with her to fix it. But, I fuckin' heard him over there when she called me. She invited him home! And I was like, 'What's he doing over there now?' and she tries to tell me that she's 'just being friendly' or some shit like that. I swear to God, she fucked him, but she always denied it right to my face. Every time! Every time I wanted to talk about it, she would shut me out. Well, fuck her. I don't need her anyway." Chris finished his beer and doubled-down his bet. "Well! What do you know? I won again!"
"How about that, son! That's quite the run. How much you up?"
With a smile, relieving him of a portion of his sorrows, Chris exclaimed, "I got two-hundred bucks here! Wow, this has never happened to me."
And, like a sweeping plague, Nathaniel Benson, Chris' best friend from high school, tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Before Chris could bet on the next round, he turned with a smile and stopped on Benson with a frown. "What are you doing here, man? I'm on a roll; I don't need any of your bad luck up here."
"Chris! You gotta help me! I'm upstairs right now and I've got a hand - you won't believe!"
"Benson, I don't want to hear it! Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it. I'm doing good; I'm up 200 - "
"Loan it to me! Please! I promise you this, it's a lock in a fault."
"You need 200 bucks? You better have something good."
Benson saw his opening. He saw his chance to wiggle inside and squeeze out every dollar he could. Chris' drinking problem could be used to Benson's advantage and he knew this. With all the clarity and sincerity he could muster, Benson locked into Chris' eyes and said, "No joke. I've got a 2 through 7 of spades waiting for me at the table right now. They let me come down here to grab money from the ATM, but I don't have access to that. It's all my dad's money - "
"Come on, now! You get something like 500 bucks a week from your dad - he's loaded! You're telling me you can't save one God-damned dime in all the years your dad's been working the markets?"
"There's 2000 dollars in the pot right now. I need whatever you got. Please help me out with this, I'll split everything with you, right down the middle."
After a brief moment of consideration, Chris' alcoholic lust for easy money overcame his common sense, which departed his brain five drinks ago. Chris dipped into his savings, plowed into his credit cards, until he scrimped for every dollar. He followed his friend into the stairwell, but was stopped at the door outside of the poker room.
"Sorry man, it'll only be a minute. I just gotta go in there and win this, then I'll be out and we'll go to dinner."
Exactly one minute later, furious as a nest of hornets dipped in excrement, Benson punched through the doorway, cursing all the way down the stairs.
"You're kidding me! You're God-damned kidding me! How could you possibly lose that? Are you fucking insane?" Chris' heart fell into his grumbling stomach as he could read the bad news from Benson's face.
"Aww, shit man! I was bluffing. I just went downstairs to stall for time. I thought, if they saw I was that serious about getting more money, that they'd fold when I raised the bet 2000 bucks." Benson punched the wall next to them, then shook his hand furiously.
"Wait, you raised the bet? I thought you were going to call!" Now, backbone took over heart-duties.
"I had to raise! I had two queens! That wouldn't have flown - and it didn't! I can't believe they called my bluff; that's so much money." The thought of losing multiple thousands of dollars left Benson empty inside. He didn't feel at all like eating, but he had made a promise to his friend.
Since it was 1:25 in the morning, the only place open and appropriate within the newly formed price range was the I-Hop on 6th and Pacific. Benson pleaded with his friend to talk to him, promising Chris that the money would be returned, with interest. Finally, at the restaurant, Chris could take no more of his friend's chattering mouth.
"You know what, why don't you just shut up and go to hell! God, I'm really sick of it all. You tell me these lies, you promise me these things, when you know I can't afford it. That's it, after you give me back my money - you're not allowed in my house. I'm not talking to you - it's over. You can find someone else to fuck over because - "
"Uh, sir, could you please keep it down? The other customers are starting to become agitated." The waiter bowed in between the two arguing faces.
Benson rested his head in his hands on the table, marveling at the intoxication his friend had suffered in one evening. Soon, he would throw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and leave Chris to fend for himself.
"You know," the belligerent Chris continued. "You're such a fucking loser! I mean, how can someone be such a dick-less wonder and still make it this long?" Chris noticed two women across from their booth giggling at his latest comment. This made him sit up with pride, returning a blurry smile in their direction.
Benson's eyes closed to the width of dental floss, his lips squeezed to make a diamond from coal. Slowly, he quipped, "That's not what Crystal said." With that, a sudden bolt of rage overcame Chris' face. "Oh that's right. About a week before you guys broke up. Mmm, hmm. I fucked her . . . . . . . . . .
I fucked her . . . . . . . . . .
I fucked her . . . . . . . . . .
I fucked her like she said she needed to be fucked. This happened to be the weekend before your gigantic anniversary fiasco. She knew the end was near, but she was too afraid to give you a heart attack. Crystal used to call me up at least twice a week to talk about your relationship issues. Evidently, towards the end, you became quite the sloppy drunk, picking old fights that didn't need reemergence.
Mainly, I was there to help her through the rough patch of your time together. She said she stopped being attracted to you for the last month, but she put up with it to protect your feelings.
"We've been together, what is it now, six months? This is by far the longest relationship I've ever been in. Normally by now, the guy has left me for one reason or another." Crystal frequently called me up teary eyed, feeling down on life.
"Well, then, I've just got to ask you, why have you stayed with him for so long? All you do is complain about how much he drinks and fights with you. Why haven't you just dumped his ass a long time ago?" By this time, I talked to her quite a bit, and we had achieved a friendship that mattered to me personally. Or, at least it mattered to my "person."
"I don't know. I mean, I loved him once. I guess . . . I might still. I don't know! I don't know what to think. I've never really left anyone before. I don't want to break his heart, but I don't think I can stay with him either."
"Well, you've got to make a choice." Here comes the big one. The question of all questions that really turned the tide with you two. "What do you want in your life?"
Right there, that cinched it. You were all done in her mind. After that night, I ended it. I didn't really want it to affect our friendship, but now, I guess that doesn't matter, does it, because you always gotta be the big shot . . . . . . . . . .
the big shot . . . . . . . . . .
the big shot . . . . . . . . . .
"The big shot in your relationships. With your girlfriends, with your guy friends. Why can't you just learn to relax and live with what you're dealt?"
Chris sat there, without any words to come back with for the time being. He sobered up quickly during Benson's depiction. This clear head gave him a chance to think about what Benson said.
"So, that means you weren't the only one. In my mind, and I've had quite a few drinks tonight, but I'm completely fine right now. I've made the right decision." Chris finally appeared content with his life. For the first time all night, for the first night in three weeks, Chris felt everything would be better for him. "I think, now it's time. If I get rid of her now, then I can go on with my life . . . . . . . . . .
I can go on with my life . . . . . . . . . .
I can go on with my life . . . . . . . . . .
"I can go on with my life and I won't have to worry about you sleeping around with other men."
"What are you talking about? Chris, please. Let me explain." Crystal returned to her apartment, but spotted me at the doorstep. The night air had chilled me inside out, but it had not cooled my rage.
"How could you? Today is our anniversary! Why couldn't you just be upfront with me? How many men, Crystal? How many?!" Tears filled my eyes and I let them flow freely.
"I'm so sorry, Chris." Crystal started crying too. "He was the only one I ever slept with besides you, I swear . . . . . . . . . .
I swear . . . . . . . . . .
I swear . . . . . . . . . .
"I swear I'll never let another woman get to me like she did."
Chris stood up from the table and checked the clock above the exit. 2:10. Chris left Benson to pick up the check as he walked out to his car, alone. He reached into the back, grasping for Benson's shooting-range pistol. Chris could not be stopped now, his decision had been made. He had one more place to visit on this night . . . . . . . . . .
on this night . . . . . . . . . .
on this night . . . . . . . . . .
on this night . . . . . . . . . .