Day 22: Lobject’s Person I’d Most Like to Drink With

Dad kept Coors Light in the garage fridge

he let us try it once, we begged

for that sip—cool, crisp, lost on us kids

Those days we wrestled him after work

His palms played dayyy-o, dayyyyy-o

on my belly. I giggled like my son does

when his stomach is my drum

I sing softly just to him, wondering

if he’ll remember my words 

if I’ll know him long enough

for him to buy me a drink

or if his memory will be a sip of beer

Day 22: Pobject's Person He'd Most Like To Drink With

Who'll it be?
Someone famous?
Homer? Wilde? Parker? Plath?
(Wouldn't Tycho Brahe be a blast?)

Or rather
someone
more accessible,
less hypothetical?
(Gillian's gotten me
 drunk


and good

several times.)
I spent most of my half-hour
pondering these points.

And if I were to pick someone
live,

someone
closer-to-home,
how would my other friends feel
about the slight?

Day 17: Dobject's Person He Would Most Like To Drink With

The person I would most like to drink with is—

and, by “person,” do we mean a human?

As I’m sure my dog’s a merry hail-fellow,

who could tell a houndish hootish tale,

but I doubt he can hold his licker,

it's plagued him most his life.

And by “like,” and “most” do we mean a doppelganger?

As a agreeable as they come, to every sworled finger,

but a drag at parties, and too much close to home;

as for “like,” I’m sure I’ll like any likely

liker alike the likes of which bear no likeness liken me.

And by “drink,” well, what really can I say?

I can pass for a year past my age,

if I didn’t shave two days,

and quoted pithy quotes: Elvis, Perec, John Cage;

but they’d card a barstool

if it hadn’t sat so still all day,

and not seemed so eager,

despite the risk,

for a taste of any action,

so as to hide beneath the bar.

But the American way, ever right, ever feared, as ever, is yet:

“Don’t trust anyone under 30.”

Oh well.

Day 1: Person you’d most like to drink with

He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted café was a very different thing.

“A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”  - Ernest Hemmingway

“You should have killed yourself last week,” the waiter loudly articulates, assuming me deaf. I attempt to find the appropriate gesture.  The appropriate finger.  But the youthful azure of his eyes distracts me. I select certain words instead.  “A little more.” 

The waiter responds with a sloppy pour and sour countenance.  “Thank you.”  He snatches the bottle from my table like a jealous, greedy child and joins the older waiter who had been slowly, fluidly wiping down the bar.  They sit together at the small two top close to the wall.  The door frames them like a painting. A work of art juxtaposing frantic youth and rusted age.  I return to my thoughts. 

It is very late and I have the café to myself, save for the occasional couple meandering down the sidewalk, holding hands and stealing kisses.  The dust of the day has melted into a dew of darkness.  The only moon is the electric light dangling from a weak wire.  My table is an island in a still sea of the terrace. I take a deep breath, exhale, and sip. 

The brandy warms my throat and stomach.  I hear the words my niece spoke in sharp tones earlier today. “You have years, booze, and a bank account.  She is gone. You are a sad old man,” her amber gaze never breaks its contact with mine.   “You have nothing.”

“You have youth, confidence, and your family,” I said aloud to no one.  “You have everything.”  My head swims, buzzed by the saucers of this café.  I look to the portrait of waiters.  “Another.”  The young waiter walks over stiffly but quickly.  “No.  Finished.” 

It wasn’t quite 2:00 yet, was it?  “Another brandy.”  He responds, speaking to me in a way usually reserved for small children or invalids.  “No more tonight.  Close now.”  He is resolute, and I am not looking for a fight.  I nod, and he walks away.  I count the saucers. Three, four, five… and take out my worn leather wallet.  The creased and yellowed photograph of her halted my progress.  Her feet in the sand and one hand on her swimsuit.  I recite the prayer of my pen:  “Time take me back there.”

I should have killed myself last week.  I have never had confidence, and I am not young.  I pay for the drinks and leave half a peseta tip.  The older waiter has returned to wiping down the bar, menial work but he does it with dignity.  I straighten my posture and head into the darkness of the streets.  Now, trying not to think, I will go home to my room.  I will lie in my bed and hope for dreams of her in sunlight.