2.12.2010

Enablers

We were years and cases beyond needing another excuse to drink, but we conjured one anyway. There were three weeks solid where I'd call him to go "car shopping". My twelve-year-old sedan was coming apart at the seams and I'd been working steady enough to justify monthly payments. It was time to invest in something worthwhile-- new to me, though not necessarily "new". The string of used car lots along 207 became our playground. The bartenders on the strip almost learned our names. This one sorry dame conned us into buying the promotional glasses that were used to serve a new beer we'd been sampling. One of them broke a week later in my dish rack, some roommates being better at doing dishes than others. I still have the other one. When I look at it I remember those three weeks of clandestine stool-sitting. Needless to say I didn't buy a thing from any of those hustlers; wound up selling my soul to a dealership near Jersey that laughed when I tried to trade in the beater. And my friend and I? We're limited now to Saturday nights, though if I needed more I'd have it. Any excuse for a beverage. Anything for a wingman. A cup of sugar, a gallon of milk. It's there.

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