I’m Ready for My Flaming Shot!
When I wasn’t at the bar with no name, I would drink at a bar called Tubby’s. Gregg’s friend, Tubby, was the bartender, and Tubby was always bartending. The only time he wasn’t was when he was in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy and, rather than being empathetic, I was pissed off about his absence. I don’t know if I ever knew Tubby’s real name.
Tubby’s had a bright red phone on the wall that served as a jukebox. I would pick up the phone and say, “Play Break on Through by The Doors!” And the person on the phone would say, “Okay, it’s on the turntable!” And then I would wait – or forget about it – until it played. It was like an early version of Spotify.
Tubby served flaming shots, which I dearly loved. He’d pour alcohol into a shot glass and light it on fire. I sat mesmerized, watching it burn, until Tubby doused the flame and demanded that I quickly down it.
This was my idea of great fun. I couldn’t afford flaming shots very often, but I would purposefully go across town to Tubby’s just to watch that tiny fire, as though they couldn’t be served anywhere else.
One drunken night I ran to the bathroom, barely in time to puke my guts out in the stall. This was not a new thing for me; I’d been vomiting in order to drink more for years.
But on this night, I puked for ten minutes then went back to the bar and said to Tubby, “Okay! I’m ready for my flaming shot!”
“You just drank it,” Tubby told me.
“No I didn’t!” I said. “I just went to the bathroom!”
“You drank it before you went to the bathroom,” Tubby said. “Look! Here’s your empty shot glass!”
There was, indeed, an empty shot glass, but I had no recollection of drinking that flaming shot. I had to pony up and buy another one, so that I could drink it while not in a blackout.
One night I was sitting at Tubby’s, wasted as usual, and a guy walked in to pick up a 12-pack. He waited next to me at the bar then, quite suddenly, exclaimed: “Kirsten!”
“It’s me!” I replied. The man looked vaguely familiar and oddly happy. I looked closer, completely befuddled.
“Robert!” he said, pointing to his chest. “From Seven Springs!”
I nearly fell off the barstool.
This was the man with whom I’d spent a beautiful night after nearly being gang-raped by his friends. Robert – my love – who’d dropped me off after Larry had left without me at Seven Springs ski resort.
I’d never expected to see Robert again, and I didn’t know what to do with him now that I had. I had adored this man and he was standing here, alone, next to me.
But Gregg was at Tubby’s that night, on the other side of me.
I glanced at Gregg, then back at Robert, who was wise enough to recognize that he was – again – a third wheel.
And again, this made me very, very sad. But what could I do? I was stuck with the person with whom I was stuck. Again.
I gave Robert a quick hug and felt my body flash back to rolling in the sheets, laughing all night. Suddenly I missed him like he was a dear friend, a long-lost love, even though he wasn’t.
I let Robert go and never saw him again.
I was so far beyond repair, I couldn’t even feel sad about it. Just empty and lost and utterly alone.
Again.