One
Cocktails
“Why do terrible ideas feel like they’re good? Like, you know…why do they only reveal themselves as terrible after you’ve decided to go all in? I don’t get it, an hour ago this seemed so full proof and now…now I just don’t know anymore, you know?” I explain, trying to get my bearings, “I’m Miles, by the way. I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“Um…did you want to see a menu?” The bartender repeats herself, her face in a state of shock. She’s probably contemplating another line of work, probably thought bartending in an airport would insulate her from the weirdos, with TSA weeding them out one thumb in the ass at a time. She’s a petite blonde with bulging breasts that I’m certain are highlighted to bring in tips from horny businessmen.
“A menu would be awesome. I’m sorry, it’s been a rough time lately.”
She grabs a menu from under the bar and dashes off to tend to anything that isn’t me. When her shift is over, I’m sure she’ll probably go home to her boyfriend, who—for the purpose of this pity party—I’ll assume is a struggling musician waiting on his big break, and tell him about the guy who rambled incoherently before he got a menu. He’ll listen long enough to find an opening for sex, and then after they’re done, he’ll sit naked, strumming “Hotel California” on his guitar while staring out at the city. This is what I’ve been reduced to; a cheap ploy used for intimacy in a relationship that’s probably on the rocks.
My flight doesn’t board for another forty-five minutes, so I sit in a brewery near my gate, plotting a strategy. I know that my estranged sister, Lily, is in a Master’s program at NYU. But that’s all I know. Stalking the campus for days on end is my only hope of finding her, but even that seems sketchy. We share a love of hip-hop, so staking out local hip hop clubs is another option. As I continue to rack my brain, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. The only person that can help me is our mother. But before I can make the call, the bartender returns and she seems less suspicious of me.
“What can I get for you Miles?” She asks a bit more cheerfully, like she remembered she’s working for tips.
“Let me get a Sierra Nevada and a shot of the strongest whiskey you got—actually, make it a double.”
“Fear of flying that bad huh?”
“Only way I’d fear flying more than calling my mom was if she was the one flying the plane.”
“Well in that case, I’ll leave the tab open.” She says, before whisking off to make the drinks.
My mother is a complicated woman. She’s capable of kindness but, as evidenced by her three marriages, she’s the kind of person to be loved from afar. Like two time zones afar, with a long rural drive after landing at the airport. As a firm believer in the mantra “Upward and onward,” she has little time for reflection and harping on the past. Add in the absence of a filter in any environment and you can understand my lack of enthusiasm. She taught us that appearance was everything. While that boded well for me in regards to material possessions to win the ever important popularity points in high school, it left a void that I spent years trying to fill.
When my father was still around, she was an entirely different person. But she went into a spiral after he left. Alcohol became a truth serum and on many nights, after finishing a bottle, she’d confess her real feelings. Though she “loved” me, I bear such a strong resemblance to him that I served as a constant reminder of his desertion and, in turn, I became the enemy—a living embodiment of her failure. She made a vow to herself to never love like that again, to never give everything to another person.
After a few years of picking up the pieces she met Greg, Lily’s dad. Looking back, a guy with that name never stood a chance with her. Greg was a banking executive who, after the death of Lily’s mother, found himself with a teenage daughter he was ill equipped to raise. In my mother, he found a woman that wanted very little sex—or anything for that matter—who was also willing to raise his child. Greg thought he’d hit the jackpot, until six years in when my mother found out he was sleeping with several interns. The divorce was nasty. Though mother had another failed relationship, she had one hell of a consolation prize in their settlement.
I unlock my phone and stare at my mother’s contact. The picture is from her trip to Jamaica between her second and third marriage. She said she needed to “find” herself, and three months later she came home with Robert—husband number three. Robert is two years younger than me, which my mom champions as an accomplishment. I finally press call and prepare for battle. She likes to let the phone ring for a bit; picking up at the last second is her way of reminding the caller that she’s more important.
“Well, if it isn’t my son who never calls me,” she coos in a way that makes wonder if staking out Lily’s campus was really the worst option.
“Sorry mom, I’ve just been busy.”
“Doing what? It’s not like you have anything taking your time anymore.”
Almost on instinct, I throw up triple fingers toward the bartender telling her to keep pouring. Most mothers would’ve mentioned what happened would bring us together, how maybe we should mend fences and start new, because time is short and life is precious. The bartender scurries over and sets my drinks down, giving me pitiful smile as she backs away. I down the double shot and remind myself of the greater purpose. “It's not like I'm about to lose my third husband or anything,” she says.
“I was calling becau…wait,” I stammer. Everything I know about my mother tells me that I should just get to the reason I called and ignore her comment, but some car accidents you just can't look away from. “Is Robert ok?”
“I'm fine, thank you. Christ Miles, would it kill you to show some sympathy to the woman that carried you for nine months?” she asks.
I'm gonna go ahead and throw in that she only “carried” me for nine months because she got to the abortion clinic ten minutes before they closed. I learned this during one of her drunken story times, and I remind her of this.
“But, I still carried you the full term,” she replies.
Another piece of revisionist history… her mother was in a car accident the next day and, by the time she could get back around to it, the pregnancy was too far along. When your mother is an alcoholic narcissist, she can rewrite reality better than a Christopher Nolan film. So, that river you’re crying for her should be running as dry as her during menopause. I can only stand being on the phone with her for so long. I always pictured myself as a fighter pilot with his jet going down; pressing the eject button at the right time is key to survival. Usually she says something crazy and I know it’s time to hang up. It’s a slow build up, but I need information—so I tickle her fancy a little bit.
“Are you ok?”
“It’s not working out Miles, he just wants to fuck and play Xbox,” she says, “The sex is great, believe me. But, at my age, I need someone more in tune with my sensibilities. I really think bringing him to America has changed him.”
The countdown has begun.
I chuckle at this, which makes her click her teeth in anger. It was American culture, not the age gap or the whirlwind three month courtship. No, it was Chick-Fil-A drive-thru and gigabit speed wi-fi that strained their marriage.