That last shot of Irish whiskey, the same brand I'd sworn off after the Saint Patty's Day debacle, had hit me like a ton of Emerald Isle potatoes. One of the evening's co-conspirators had ordered it foolishly as an attempted display of bravado. Peacocks were God's last crafted bird, a joke to remind the world of pride's downfalls. The doll sitting beside us at the oak was talking to a college lad far below her standards, or what they should've been had she known better. My friend's flawed drunken logic aimed to prove something by downing a man's drink. Fortunately, she never looked our way during the process. Both of us made the post-shot grimace and reached desperately for our cocktails to chase the gasoline down our throats. In trying too hard one loses sight. In wine there is truth, but only pain in straight whiskey. I pointed out our failure and my punch-drunk accomplice agreed. It'd been a long night for both of us; still, like stubborn children, we'd refused to go to bed. Why pass up a perfectly good Friday? Maybe the miracle would finally transpire.
A new face approaching from the recycled crowd at my six saved us from our newfound miseries.
"Jamie," my pal called out. "Come meet my friend Mike."
The ambiguity of the name frightened me at first. I'd met enough lackluster females lately, didn't need another awkward introduction. Turning around provided some relief. Jamie was a man, and one I recognized from a past life. We shook hands while my eyes peeled the years and beers off his face. There he was, alright: the starting quarterback from the Modified team on which I played during my one year of football. Jamie, in all his post-pubescent glory.
"I know you," I said enthusiastically, the vodka and whiskey mixing to create a grin on my face that no sadistic coach could remove. "You probably don't remember me, but I used to watch your blind side." I turned ninety degrees to the right while patting an imaginary football with my left hand that my right hand nestled confidently, imitating a quarterback's movement.
Jamie's eyes smiled wide. He didn't want to shoot me down, but wasn't sure how to field my statement. I respected his choice of silent approbation.
"I played Left Tackle. Number eighty-five. They put me on the line after learning I couldn't catch with those shoulder pads in the way." The last clause was my excuse, a thin and unimpressive alibi. When they gave me the trophy for Most Improved Player at the end of the season I failed to realize what it really meant: I was the worst kid who wound up not being quite as bad by the end. Only time would teach the art of the effective use of euphemisms. Still, it was the one trophy I'd ever earned.
Jamie laughed this time, but still came out with nothing. Maybe it was the alcohol that stole his tongue that night. Such a curse is not always a bad thing. There are always benefits to the crutch. Even broken clocks are right twice a day.
My buddy chuckled at my shameless revelation while Jamie walked away. It wasn't to bigger and better-- only the bathroom. Even quarterbacks eventually met reality. There were no cheerleaders for Modified, probably because fourteen-year-olds had enough hormonal issues. There weren't many women chanting our names now, either. And the coach was replaced with a mental image of an amalgamation of our fathers, our teachers, and the cops who'd pulled us over throughout the years. We were calling the plays now, some more sound than others. There was no one to thank, but no one to blame, either.
"Good ol' Jamie," I said before sipping my drink.
"No one in this bar's good, Mike."
I didn't acknowledge or deny. I was still in '98, and thankful.
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