Don't Forget to Write

Beginning of a Bender

 that day Bruno called me into the living room, handed me a cup, and told me to drink. It was whiskey with a bit of coke in it. "Drink up! Drink up!"

I drank it all down and it was immediately refilled with a hefty pour of whiskey and a light splash of coke, courtesy of Bruno, who then turned on FIFA. We played a drinking game where we had to take a gulp for every goal, out of bounds, or foul. By the end of the second game my vision had become blurred, the ball on the screen nearly impossible to see and the white lines blending with the green grass. Playing the video game had become almost as difficult of a task as actually playing soccer. My swollen brain certainly contributed to my inebriation. When we were about to walk out the door to go to a bar, Bruno said "get rid of the toilet paper, mummy-man." In the bathroom I peeled the bandages from around my head. My hair was a mess, my forehead was sweaty, and my scar was huge and red. I tried to push my hair around to cover it up, but it was no use, so I pulled a beanie low over my brow and it covered the scar just fine.

Our shoes slapped the city sidewalks just as the sun was setting, the horizon towards Jersey a blend of purple, red, and orange. Bruno led the way west, towards the beautiful colors. "Okay, priorities. We must first go to the watering hole of all of my favorite local degenerates. To Bob's!" On the top of a hill along 145th street was a tall stone church, weathered by over a century of New York climate. Two gothic lanterns on either side of the entrance cast an ominous orange glow on the large oak doors, the light trickling down the front steps and gathering in a dim orange puddle on the sidewalk. This majestic church sat directly across from a center of Irish and Harlem culture that was Bob's Pub. There were neon signs and four-leaf clovers on the windows, an overhang around the first floor, a couple of bike racks, and a sign near the entrance that read "Céad Míle Fáilte". Inside, the pub was lit by a faint glow barely exposing wooden tables around one side and a long wooden bar that stretched the length of the opposite wall. Old blues music, currently a song by Muddy Waters, played through the speakers just loud enough to hear in their background of conversation. We walked through the diverse crowd of dark, pale, and everything in-between, to the far end of the bar and sat facing the whole room. A tall, burly, white haired, rosy cheeked man behind the bar approached us. "Bruno my friend," he said in a deep gravelly voice as he extended his hand and Bruno shook it, "been a while."

"Sir Bob. You know I avoid drinking in the soccer season."

"Right. Moose was in here the other day, told me about what happened to ya with the fight and the suspension and all. Real shame to hear that. I think ya did the right thing though, standing up for a teammate and all."

Bruno nodded his thanks, he valued the barman's opinion on the matter. "Bob, this is my roommate Peter."

"Peter, eh?" He held out a big hand and I shook it. He had a firm grip. "That's a good strong name, son, named for you father?"

"No sir, my grandmother actually named me. She always liked the name Peter, for Saint Peter."

"Ah, the rock from which the church would grow! Good choice on your grandmother's part there lad. What can I get the two of you to drink?" Bruno ordered an IPA and a shot of tequila. I got a stout and a shot of whiskey. "This round is on me gents," Bob said.

"Thanks," we said in unison.

Eric Clapton, Nat King Cole, Otis Redding, B.B. King, and many other legends played from the speakers of the bar. Between conversations I could see Bruno, behind his smile, was harboring deep disappointment for his untimely end to the season. This was meant to be his fourth and final year as a collegiate player - his last chance to play competitively and raise the Conference Championship trophy that had narrowly eluded the team in recent years. I admired him for plastering on a smile and cracking his wise-ass jokes.

After a couple rounds, Bruno motioned for Bob to bring us the check. "Onward, Petey boy!" He said slowly to avoid slurring his words. "There are more bars to see, and more drinks to drink to be drunk!" He took the check when it arrived. I offered to split it but he refused, insisting that this was a birthday celebration and would be his treat, "besides, Bob hooks me up."

As we walked out I held the door open for a short, skinny, brunette girl walking in. She looked up at me and our eyes met with some confusing familiarity, but only for half a second as she hurried past me. Something smelled of lavender.