Code Junkie

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For the duration of the ride home, we sit in silence. We do take a few more detours around the coastal highway and he ends up driving directly past the assisted living home and through the woods. It is an odd time of day, just before the sun sets, but long since you could trace its path in the sky. The trees create a twilight of their own and the mist is what carries the light, not some celestial being, not a star or a moon, but the water in the air defies purposes and blots our visual palette, replacing depth and distance with hues of gray and smoky clouds that conjure the word "precipitation" on the back of our tongues.

We drive along the base of the big hill, the sprawling concrete structure consuming the entirety of the summit and the inorganic lights are soft orange embers burning in a damp world. It has not heavily rained in a few days, but the ground is still wet wherever you look. Cascadia is an ethereal place manifested on earth and our beloved state of Washington brings out its beauty in the most unseen, untouched places, going from point A to B. There exists no Valhalla, no Atlantis, no Heaven, no Valley of the Gods in our reality, but surely you can find sublimity in the undeveloped portions of the Pacific Northwest. I find myself lamenting the lack of connection to my roots as the car pushes on.

Mitch asks me about the tab of paper I mentioned when I had initially re-entered the vehicle. I told him about the wine party flyer and he laughed. Apparently, it was all Sal had been talking about that week. He had actually asked Mitch if he should extend an official invitation my way, but was too nervous and reluctant to act. I told him that I was not terribly excited to take part in such an event, but would gladly do it, if only for the free booze. Mitch went on to describe the formalities of wine tasting, but I ignored them. Those who spend time spitting out good wine will be the first against the wall when I am king.

He drops me off and I thank him for the favor. It really meant a lot to me, that whole bit. I get inside and sit. A woman spins a wheel on the television. A man sells me laundry detergent on the television. I watch a young couple get married and murdered on the television and then Sara comes home.

I rise and greet her at the door. I kiss her on the neck, the cheek, and then her lips. She warms up to me immediately and wraps her arms around my neck. She is not accustomed to these affections. Nor am I. We sit and talk for a while in the kitchen. Although she is one of my stoutest sobrietors, she has no objections when we open a bottle of the expensive whiskey and bitch about the people in our lives. I tell her about Sal's wine party. I do not tell her about Mitch's favor and chauffeuring, but she tells me she thinks it would be fun if we went. The next morning, I will call Sal and respond to the flyer. That night, Sara and I do the deed and I sleep a dreamless sleep.

For once in my life, everything seems normal. I am not visited by specters and visions of my past. I am not accosted by regret at every drop of a hand, at every lift of a limb, at every extension of a muscle. Sara is more than onboard for the wine tasting, which turns out to be a masquerade party. I do not really care, but it is nice to have the people in your life excited for something for once in their collective existence. News of this function has caught onto Jerry and Ted, and although Ted is not interested, Jerry sees this as the perfect opportunity to strut his recently-found courage. Jerry, with his new girlfriend, Millie, Sara, and I are all registered as attendees at Sal's wine-tasting social.

The evening before the event, Ted sends me a text message on my phone. I am in the bathroom, my dress shirt hanging on the door behind me, staring at me through the mirror, when my phone vibrates. It reads, "Tell me how it goes with ole goomba, okay?" He is obviously talking about Jerry. He is obviously talking in the hushed tone and shared secrecy of friends within a group of friends. I write half a dozen drafts of text messages before I finally close my phone and do not respond at all. Any further progress is only hindering the love of another trusted companion. Ted does not mean any harm, but I cannot help but feel the venom in his words. Is this the impression I leave on people?