June 26, 2019

B.Y.O.B.

It was a perfectly good bottle of wine. A Chilean Merlot. Post-Pinochet. Making it both dry and politically correct. A 1991 St. Carolina. The price tag not removed. $7.95. He remembered joking about the price. Something about not being a cheap drunk. Something like that. Or maybe about being a cheap drunk. And joking about the name. He remembered joking about the name.

She brought it over on their third date. Dinner. He had made dinner. Pasta puttanesca. Calling both his sister and mother long distance for the recipe. A collaboration of sorts. Killing two birds he thought. Food brought them joy. They could talk about food. He was happy to make them happy. MCI was happy to make them happy. They argued about the olives. But they had fun arguing. Not like when Dad was drinking. Another story.

Their happiness was contagious. He let his guard down. “Catherine,” he said out loud, “her name was Catherine.”

He didn’t even like wine all that much. Didn’t like to drink really. Didn’t get it. Or getting drunk. Throwing up all night long. What was the point. Didn’t have a drink. “What’s your drink?” the bartender, neighbour, girlfriend asks. I’m a J&B man, I’m a 7&7 man, single malt, no ice, with ice, with a twist, with lime, I’m a boilermaker man, I’m the hootchie-cootchie man, with a wink, any scotch, as long as it starts with Glen, I’m a letters and numbers man, pour me one finger, one bourbon, one scotch and one beer, give me a tall one, give me a short one, give me a cold one, anything as long as it’s cold. He drank coke.

The dinner was a success. Had been a success. Was deemed to be a success. Puttanesca, salad (nine bottles of salad dressing in his fridge), fresh Italian loaf, key lime pie. Store-bought. Obviously. And wine. A California cabernet sauvignon that he had already opened to let breathe. Why did it have to breathe? Was it suffocating? “I’m suffocating,” she said. But that was later. And the Chilean? “For next time,” someone said. Bravely. Optimistically.

He doodled on the label when she went to the bathroom. A box. He drew a tiny box on the label. Shading it like his father had taught him. Make it look three-dimensional. “It’s all angles and shading,” he said. Everything for his father was all angles and shading.

She drank Bloody Marys. Catherine drank Bloody Marys. That was her drink. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” she would tell the bartender, neighbour, boyfriend. “And you, sir?” Eyebrows raised. “The same. Only without the vodka.” Smiling. C’mon buddy. Share the joke. “Ah, the gentleman will have a Virgin Mary.” Smiles all around. “He’s a control freak,” she states. To the waiter. Was that the first time? There would be others.

He did not want to go to the party.  New Year’s Eve. Bernstein was having her annual New Year’s Eve party I hate those fucking parties.” Walk in the park, piece of cake, like riding a bike. “It’s been six months.” “Who said that? I heard that. Cheap shot.” “C’mon, it’ll be fun.” “Don’t think so, can’t see it, don’t see it happening. Good book. Have got a good book. Been meaning to do a little writing .He reads the same sentence for the fifth time. “It’s been six months.” He heard that. Cheap shot. He gets changed. It’ll be like old times. That was what he was afraid of. He was in charge of bringing chazerai. Junk food. This was the fourth year in a row he was in charge of bringing the chazerai. During the year, he would run into people from the party and they would remind him that he was the chazerai guy. Claim to fame. Catherine made an amazing apple Brown Betty. “Tell Catherine to bring her Brown Betty.” That was her dish. “Is Catherine brining her Brown Betty?” “Tell Catherine that I won’t let her in the door unless she has her Brown Betty.” There is no apple pie this year. Catherine is in Nevis, Neevis, however the fuck you pronounce it. “Nine-o-clock. Can’t go empty-handed. Can’t show up without a sacrificial offering, a token, a gesture, a message of peace. He grabs the St. Carolina.

Bernstein is in good spirits. She is very drunk. She has had many spirits. She introduces him to the woman in the white t-shirt and blue blazer. For the third time. “Do you know Nancy, Marci, Tami?” He still doesn’t catch her name. Or does, but erases it quickly. Hits the delete button. Checks his email, checks his machine, re-checks his machine. “Do you know Marci, Nancy, Tami?” “I think we slow danced at the Shapiro bar mitzvah,” he says. Not smiling. It is a line. It is his line. 15 years old if it’s a day. He doesn’t have a drink, or a dish, but this is his line. Tami, Marci, Nancy has not heard it before. The Shapiro bar mitzvah. She scrunches her face. She, too, has been drinking. Had been in good spirits. She does not remember the Shapiro bar mitzvah. There is no Shapiro bar mitzvah. She does not remember meeting him 10 minutes ago, and 15 minutes before that. He decides he needs a drink.

She liked his line. “Have you met my friend Catherine?” Bernstein is drunk. It is New Year’s Eve. Last New Year’s Eve. He has brought a bag of chazerai and a bottle of Beaujolais. “Didn’t we slow dance at the Shapiro bar mitzvah?” She puts her arms around him and they waltz around the room. “Yes, I think we did. Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh. You stepped on my toe.” She is a little drunk. “Can you get me another Bloody Mary?” she asks. Next thing he knows, he’s cooking pasta puttanesca.

You can’t put the cork back in. You can try, but it won’t be the same. Has to be drunk, drank, drinked, in one sitting, in one lifetime, all at once. It doesn’t taste the same. Doesn’t have the same body. Doesn’t have the same soul. Once you start twisting that corkscrew, be prepared to commit. Jump in with both feet. Barn door. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will disregard that last comment. It did not happen. Rewind the tape. Take two, take three. Let’s take five minutes and try to recompose ourselves.” “Your honour, my client did not mean what she said. She wishes to recant, to review, to reconsider.” “Your honour, my client meant what she said. Only she had not meant to say it out loud.” “Your honour, my client was drunk. One Bloody Mary too many.”

The breakup is very civil. They are both very civil. It’s a great civilization. The name-calling has been put aside. The accusations have been shelved. Dusted off and re-shelved. “The defence rests, your honour.” “Is this mine or yours?” she asks, holding up a cassette, a pot, a brush, a chair, a life.

Is there anything to drink? He wants to know if there is anything to drink. Someone says, “I think there’s some coke in the fridge.” They know him. He drinks coke. He is the chazerai man. But tonight he wants a drink. A real drink. Maybe a glass of red. “Try this Bordeaux,” Bernstein urges. But he is reaching for the Chilean Merlot. He is reaching for his perfect three-dimensional box.

The end.