Commiserating

Practice went well, the new song was coming.
We packed our gear and got ready to say our goodbyes
though I didn't want to be alone quite yet.
A drummer with a liver as hard as his cymbals
always makes for a good post-op drinking partner
so I invited him back to my place for a few cocktails
assuring him I'd drive him home afterwards.

It's taken some practice
but I can manage to only have that one drink now.
Calling it a night cap makes it easier somehow.

We chewed the fat
shot the shit
whatever you want to call it
as he flipped through the channels
savoring his concoction with the pride of a craftsman.
I sip mine slowly since it'll be the only one I have.
I suggest taking him home an hour and a half later
when his eyelids get heavy and he nods off sitting up.

We get in my car and I apologize for the lack of selection.
My music collection is locked in my trunk because the location
of my new job site is in the heart of the ghetto.
The disc in the stereo comes on and I mention the radio option
but he doesn't take the bait
so I'm forced to listen to the damn mix CD
that I mistakenly popped in a few days ago.

I know, I do it to myself sometimes.
OK, most times, but thank you for not counting.

The first track comes on and he looks across at me, puzzled
as I hand him a clove cigarette and my lighter while backing out
of my driveway:
"Leaving On a Jet Plane," and our failed practice-run honeymoon to Florida.
I try to explain that the CD's source and seemingly random songs
but in his current state he can't comprehend that I want to hear them
even less than he does right now.
Again, "We can turn the radio on..."
but the hint still doesn't sink and he skips to the next track
as I coax the wheel into a smooth left turn.

Something about a break-up comes on, he complains about the misery.
I agree under my breath as he sings along in jest
and the irony escapes us both.

A few more songs, all duds, and we're halfway there.
We're both cringing, but for different reasons.
He turns and reaches into the backseat in search of other options.
I start trying to tell him again that it's no use
since it's all locked in my trunk
but trail off mid-sentence
since I know I won't get through to him tonight, in that state
just like she never could
those nights that seem so painfully distant and close
simultaneously.

The one about not looking "a thing like Jesus" rears its ugly head.
I pull harder on my clove.
The beard's back, but I'm still no one's savior
still trying desperately to talk "like a gentleman"
though that gets me equally nowhere.

Fast-forward to the tragedy of a white man rapping.
I consider trying to argue that it's a good song regardless
and settle for the fact that I didn't want to hear it anyway.
At this point, I'd even wear that Bridle if it'd make a difference.

We come to the melodramatic conclusion of the unfortunate trip
down memory lane
plenty sober to get out of a ticket
but not drunk enough to deal
and three miserable little numbers by one miserable little band come on.
He instantly skips them and returns to the beginning.
I commandeer DJ status and put on a song I know he would've liked
if he would've let it play past the introduction and recognized it.
We laugh about a few junior high innuendos in the lyrics and then I explain
that she put that one on there because I tend to let things linger.
He acknowledges that it's a genetic trait out of my control
which sends the image of the other side of my family tree to my mind's eye.
I haven't seen him in almost a year and a half now.
I can't help but wonder how many more mistakes of mine
have been in his footsteps.
If only he'd told me.
If only she'd left for good.
If only I'd thrown this goddamn thing out the window of my car a long time ago.

I drop my friend off at home, back out of his driveway, and head home.
Still coughing from the clove I just finished
I light up a Marlboro and sing along to the rest
of whatever that fucker named Fate throws my way.

I have to piss and debate pulling over, but I can hold it.
You'd be surprised what I can take;
singing and smoking
bobbing and weaving
just trying to live
and secretly thankful.





Currently reading:
"Bone Palace Ballet" by Charles Bukowski.