1.09.2009

Matthew, Mark, and John

The ride upstate took longer
than I'd anticipated.
College dorms were more cramped
than I'd remembered them being.
But she was more beautiful
than the pictures had told me.
It wasn't always bad to be wrong.

"My friend's boyfriend is coming
to visit tonight, too," she said.
"You'll like him. He's cool
and the same age as you."
I noticed how she seemed to think
we only had the second thing in common.
I didn't blame her.

She was right, I did like him.
We had a lot in common:
he played in a band
and had a long beard
though I'd just shaved mine off
to appear somewhat normal again.
We both had tattoos all over our arms
that neither of us could remove
even if we wanted to.
He even smoked the same cigarettes
that I did at the time.
We hit it off, and that helped relieve the tension
of being surrounded by a bunch of college girls.

It was convenient to have someone
to help carry the beer out of the store.
Hell, it was nice just to have someone else
old enough to buy it.
We were old men, alright--
old men who'd struck gold
with younger women
yet again.

It's one of life's minor victories
that makes up for the pebbles in shoes
and spiders in sleeping mouths.
(Was it seven a year
or seven a lifetime?)

The night was winding down
and I knew the end was nigh
since neither of our ladies
had yet learned to handle their drinks
quite as expertly as we had
through various trials by fire
balancing on the edge of the porcelain god.

"You want to come shower
at my hotel room before they pass out?"
I asked him.
It seemed like the right thing to do, I couldn't
let him get ready for bed in that disgusting
college boys' room with vomit in the urinals
and strange clumps of hair in the sink.
"I'm going to head over there to wash up
before the girls give up the ghost, you're
welcome to come do the same if you like."

"Sure, that sounds good. Have you seen the
shower stalls on campus?"

"No, and I don't plan on it."

We drove back to the hotel.
I let him go first.
The shower started and I heard the toilet flush
three minutes afterwards.
Amateur.
Bukowski kept me company
on top of the cheap comforter
until he came out of the steamed-up bathroom
clothed to the waist.
"I'm all set," he said as he dried his hair.
"Hopefully you left me some towels."
He did.
"And you're supposed to flush the toilet
after you come out of the shower
so people don't notice you had the water running
to cover up the sound of your business."
He laughed.
I didn't.
Universal Man Code was not to be trifled with.

I took my shower, got dressed, and drove us
back to the college campus to round up
our women. Something had changed
but I wasn't sure what.
Maybe we were just tired--
tired, until we said goodnight
only to lay awake restless and yearning
as our drunken significant others snored away
next to us in our respective beds.
The apologies for falling asleep came the next day.
They never matter, though.
Highway miles should earn that honor.

And now eight months later
I hope to see my one-night friend sometime.
He's come, and gone, and probably come again.
I'm lucky to have stuck around the whole time.
The luckiest. Damn that song.

Maybe the two of us could buy beer for the party again
and I'll sneak a bummed cigarette in the parking lot.
I'd like that a lot.
If nothing else he owes me a decent shower
and a few clean towels.
I guess it could be worse.

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