Overpriced Margarita

At thirty years old, I don’t have any female friends. A few of my close friends are married—maybe you could count their wives. I don’t. It’s been a year and a half since my last proper date. You know: dinner, a movie, maybe putt-putt? I hate putt-putt. We went to a Mexican restaurant and had tacos. She was pleasant—sweet, a little nervous. She was almost you.

She had fair blonde hair that paired well with her lightly tanned complexion. I didn’t like how she smelled—a bold, earthy scent you’d catch in the produce section of an organic grocery store. You smelled better. I told myself it didn’t matter and tried to ignore it. Her smile was warm. Her skin looked soft. We talked about music, our families, work, and what we do for fun—first-date talk. Things were going well. I didn’t eat much; I never do. But I drank my weight in happy-hour margaritas. The tequila piled on the whiskey nips I threw back in my car before walking in. I wasn’t sloppy—just a warm fuzz. She was nice to the waiter, and I wanted to throw up when he made her laugh. You wouldn’t have laughed.

After dinner, we walked down the street to a hole-in-the-wall music venue. They had live acts every night. That night, it was a folk band I’d seen a few times. I knew some of their songs. The white-haired lead made me laugh with his tambourine and tight-jointed dance moves. We stood near the stage, my arms around her, her butt pressed against the zipper of my jeans. I was drunk and happy, and the more I drank, the happier I got. The show wound down. I kissed her. She kissed me back. I was sure my mouth tasted like whiskey—I’d had three. Her skin was so soft. I should’ve gotten her skincare routine for you.

The music was loud, so I brought her closer and said, “Do you want to get out of here?” She leaned back, and for a moment, her hazel eyes reflected the stage light into mine. I saw your face. Then she smirked.

“Did you drive?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go to mine.”

“Car’s just around the corner.”

We left, and I drove with one eye open—my right—as any experienced drunk driver would. She didn’t live far.

We got to her house, and she asked if I smoked grass. Nobody calls it that anymore, but I said yes. I liked the Western art on the walls. Her roommate was asleep, and the house was dark. It felt like sneaking into my high-school girlfriend’s place. I half-expected a ruffled fifty-year-old man in boxers to round the hallway, wielding a scattergun. He never came out.

We smoked out of a pipe on the patio. You could hear the tires on the highway under the chorus of insects hiding in the bushes. Then she put on music from a portable speaker. I didn’t like it. She took a few hits, handed me the cherried pipe, and started dancing across the peeling deck. She looked like a string puppet. I’d seen more talented dancers, but her awkward movements had me chuckling. I was crossed, and I encouraged her. She wore herself out and plopped onto the outdoor couch—I joined her; it was surprisingly comfortable. I thought about the times I’d slept in my car in West Texas. I’d have gotten better sleep on this couch. She grabbed me and kissed me hard.

“Want to see my room?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She kissed my neck, giggled, and dragged me by the waistband of my jeans. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we’d knocked over a lamp or a picture off the wall. Our clothes hit the floor, and we rolled around on her bed. We laughed—or I did. I don’t think there was anything to laugh at. I wanted to remember everything, but my mind was half-gone. I kept repeating, she’s not you, she’s not you, she’s not you—like an incantation, or a broken prayer. The only thing I remembered was her delicate skin. My head was underwater. I’m not sure how many times we went at it. I saw your face only once. I hope I didn’t say your name.

I woke up at six and had to throw up. I pulled on a random shirt and stumbled out of her room. I barely made it to the back door, gagging as I slid it open. I held the vomit in my mouth—squirrel cheeks—then raced around the corner and projectile vomited against the side of the house. Yellow-green liquid oozed down the wood siding. I dropped into the wet grass, lungs heaving. Drank from the hose. Threw up again. Splashed water on my face. Wiped my mouth with the shirt. The taste of bile wouldn’t leave. I stayed out there drinking and puking hose water until the vomit cleared. The demons were exorcized. I’d worried they never would be. Weak, I stood and brushed the dirt off my bare ass. I wanted to clean up, brush my teeth, and crawl back into bed with the girl who danced like no one had told her she looked ridiculous. I couldn’t remember my performance, and I wanted her again. I wanted to remember her—to think of you.

When I slid the glass door open, I pushed my wet hair back.

“Oh my gosh!” a voice whispered.

I looked up. A girl—maybe twenty-four—stood by the coffee machine, eyes wide.

Hi, roommate.

I tried to find the strength to speak the day’s first words.

“Shit. Hi. Sorry, I—”

Before I could finish, she bolted down the hallway, leaving her coffee cup steaming on the counter. I probably looked like something out of a horror movie—wet and covered in puke. Nice going, jackass.

I looked down. The tip of my dick was hanging just beneath the hem of the t-shirt. I wasn’t wearing pants. Not Jason—fucking Winnie the Pooh had broken in.

You’ve really done it this time.

I dressed quietly in my own clothes and left. The bed didn’t want me back, and I didn’t blame it. I never got a text. I never heard from her again. I wasn’t surprised. But I was still pissed. What the fuck did her roommate say—that I threw up on the house? Did she mention my pantless reentry, my dick tip? We were both hammered. Who hasn’t woken up like that? I’d bet money she did, too. We had a great night. Great nights come with a cost. This one certainly did, and I ended up on the wrong side of it.

Since that night, I haven’t taken another woman to dinner, a movie, or even fucking putt-putt. It’s easier to buy a woman a drink at the bar. Maybe a few shots, until we’re both out of our minds. Then we go home, go poorly at it, and I sneak out just as the sun breaks over the horizon.

I don’t expect a text. Most of them didn’t have my number. I don’t remember their names—just fragments:

The girl I thought might have family in the cartel.

The valley girl who wanted to skinny-dip.

The one who looked like my sixth-grade history teacher.

Others.

On my thirtieth birthday, a girl wanted to take me home—I don’t remember her name. Instead, I got wasted and forgot about her. She left the venue early, and I spent most of the night vomiting on the side of the bar.

The next morning, I woke up in the backseat of my car with a hangover just as bad. There was a puddle of vomit on the floor, and it smelled almost as bad as I did. My neck was stiff. I lit a cigarette and puked out the window between drags.

Thirty years old. What a fucking loser. My late parents had two kids by thirty. I stayed in the backseat, thinking about my shitty life. Smoking cigarettes. Drinking warm water from old plastic bottles. It was nine-thirty on a Saturday. The parking lot was mostly empty—just a few cars left overnight. A small path ran alongside it.

I studied the path like it might speak. Like it knew something I didn’t. It led to a park with a woodchip playground and a basketball court. The far hoop didn’t have a net. After a while, families started to appear on the path. Toddlers in strollers. Kids on bright bikes.

One little girl in a pink helmet looped around the lot on a sparkly bike with ribbons hanging off the handlebars. She paused, waiting for her family. Her pigtails stuck out the sides of the helmet. She looked over and saw me with the window down.

We locked eyes.

She waved.

I didn’t wave back.

She rode off toward the park.

A lot of the dads walking past looked my age, if not younger. Better physiques. Better haircuts.

There I was—hungover and reeking of vomit, in the backseat of my disgusting car. The same age as that guy pushing a stroller next to his smokeshow wife.

That could’ve been us. But it’s not.

I’ve spent the last five years destroying myself. Wasted time. Wasted breath. I’d kill myself, but I’m too much of a pussy.

My apartment was a disaster. Beer cans and Styrofoam containers covered the floor. Dirty clothes draped over the furniture. Dust coated everything. The couch had a lonely divot where I always sat, ringed with cigarette burns. Mold bloomed in the kitchen sink. I wanted to kill myself right then, walking in.

Instead, I cried.

I collapsed to the floor and cried until my head throbbed. Snot clogged my nose. I curled into a ball and let it pour out.

I screamed at no one.

You hurt me. Look what it’s done!

Cause and effect.

Of course I’m fucked up. It’s because of you!

Eventually, I passed out on the floor, still smelling like puke and dirt and shame. I woke up hours later and kicked through the mess. I didn’t think—I just moved. I turned only the cold knob and stepped into the shower, still fully dressed. The water was freezing. I wanted to get out. I made myself stay.

Eventually, I went numb. I slapped myself in the face, hard. Water sprayed off the curtain. I peeled off my clothes and let them drop.

Then I screamed. Loud. Over and over. I screamed until my throat tore. For the first time in months, my mind cleared—like summer sun cutting through early-morning fog.

Cold water hit my face.

I’m to blame.

I’ve been weak.

I’ve been awful.

I’ve been cruel.

No one is coming to save me.

I’m the adult.

Something shifted.

I didn’t know what came next. But I had to do something.

After the shower, I shaved my head. Long brown strands fell into the bathroom sink. I scooped them into the toilet—shit-stained and yellowed at the rim.

Then I lost it.

I tore through the apartment with a trash bag—cigarette butts, beer bottles, soda cans, cellophane, moldy containers. I scrubbed the floors with dish soap. Piled the dirty clothes almost to the ceiling. Cleared cobwebs from corners I hadn’t looked at in months.

I must’ve cleaned through the night. I don’t know where the energy came from. It was like someone pulled a fire alarm in my skull. Synapses fired and sparked. A few times, I thought my back might give out. But I didn’t stop.

By the time I finished, morning light was cutting through the bone-white blinds and bouncing off the polished floors. I shut the blinds, took another cold shower, screamed again, and passed out.

You’re a fucking loser. Pathetic. Weak. You know that.

So what are you going to do about it?

After the breakdown, I started working out. Picked up extra hours at the post office. Took night classes at the community college. I cleaned. Ate better. Hid the TV in the closet. Stacked books on my nightstand.

I stopped numbing myself with porn. No more late nights with an incognito tab open and shame thick in the air. Kept my head shaved tight. Kept to myself.

Modern-day gladiator.

Eight months passed. Slowly, my thoughts cleared. I was saving money. I bought a leather couch. A real desk. A new bookshelf and enough paperbacks to fill it.

The apartment looked good. So did I. My arms were cut. My core was solid. The bags under my eyes had disappeared. My skin looked healthier, too.

I started writing again. Tentative at first—just a few sentences. But it felt like something waking up after years underground. The car was clean, too. I’d had to scrub the backseat over and over, windows down for weeks, trying to kill the stench of old vomit.

Then the phone rang.

Doug.

Was I ready to go back into the world?

I picked it up.

Doug lit into me for disappearing. He’d been calling, texting, and checking in since my birthday. I apologized. He accepted. He told me Lisa was starting grad school at Texas. His new architecture firm was keeping him busy. He liked the work. Things were good.

Eight months ago, I would’ve resented that. Now I was happy for him. That surprised me.

I suggested we get the old crew together for dinner. He agreed—next Thursday.

Then Lisa stole the phone and gave me shit for ghosting, giggling while Doug wrestled it back.

We said goodbye.

Cold showers are still my routine. Warm ones are for people who aren’t completely fucked in the head.

Don’t want to go to work? Cold shower.

Don’t want to go to the gym? Cold shower.

Don’t want to clean the apartment? Cold.

I’ve been training myself like a misbehaving puppy. If they sold human shock collars, I’d wear one. After Doug called, I tried to read. But I thought of you.

Every time I think about you, I take a cold shower. The shock resets something—keeps me from spiraling. Eight months ago, I stopped blaming you. But you still have real estate in my mind. You’re the hardest habit to drop. Cigarettes were easier.

I’ve tried quitting you for five years.

We had our problems—who doesn’t? But you gave up on us. On me. And then you patched your life together. You got better.

I got worse.

I’ve been killing myself, slow and quiet, like it might somehow reach you. Like you’d feel it. You didn’t. You won’t.

You left five years ago. You’d call it tragic. Maybe cry once. Then forget me by Tuesday.

I’d be reduced to foam—a once-powerful wave flattened on the shore. I’ve seen it happen. Only once.

You’ve moved on. I need to.

I’ve hated loving you, loved hating you. But I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want the high. Or the crash. You were more addictive than heroin. But I’m sober now.

Bunny,

I wish you the best.

—Coop

I still hate putt-putt.

But maybe I’ll go.