Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink (36 page)

I raise an eyebrow at him. “So you’ll take me home now?”

Ben sighs and nods slightly. “Yup.”

*   *   *

When Ben drove me home, the silence was deafening. When he pulled up to Jeff’s driveway, I took a moment to get out of the car. In my mind, I was desperately trying to find a way for this to work out. I kept trying to think of what he could say to keep me there, something about Christmas trees or money trees or “Fell in love for an hour” six-word memoirs. But I knew nothing could fix this.

I remember when Nic was pregnant, she said she would rack her brain for hours on end, trying to figure out a way for her baby to come out without a huge head sliding through a small hole, presumably stretching and tearing and ripping to shreds everything in its path, or having her stomach and its layers upon layers of muscle and fat slit open with a knife to pull the baby out. No matter how much she tried to find a solution, the facts were what they were, and in the end it was going to be painful.

Just like this.

“I know you’re really mad right now,” Ben begins. “But if you can think of a way I can make it up to you, let me know.”

I turn to him as I open my car door. “I’ve got a better idea. If
you
can think of a way to make it up to me, let me know.” And then I walk out of his car and out of his life.

The moment I unlock the door and walk into Jeff’s house, I start to feel better. Even if I am greeted with a gleeful “Slut!” from my disabled roommate watching TV on the couch.

“He’s married,” I angrily tell him as I throw my stuff down at his door and head over to him for a much-needed hug.

“Aw … sweetie.”

“He’s a fuckhead,” I state unequivocally. “We will never speak of this dark day again.” I gently sit next to Jeff and put my head lightly on his chest. “How’s your foot?”

“Better actually. You know, you’ve had a hard night. Why don’t you get some rest. I can probably hobble around the bar okay.”

“Absolutely not. You’re still injured. Besides, I could use the distraction.”

“Of a bunch of happily married newlyweds?’

“No. Of learning how to be a bartender. I had fun Saturday. And I’m not going to let one bad date ruin my vacation.” I stand up. “Give me an hour. I need to get in a quick run and a shower, then we’ll head out.”

Jeff nods approvingly. “Good for you. Moving forward like that. So you’re feeling empowered?”

“Oh, God, no. Not even vaguely. I feel like eating a pound of chocolate-chip cookie dough and washing it down with two bottles of chardonnay while watching hours upon hours of reality shows. But I’m going for a run instead.”

As I head to my room to change into running clothes, I hear Jeff say, “That’s my girl. Oh, by the way, an apartment manager called me this morning, wanted to know how long you’ve worked at my bar.”

I stop in my tracks. “Damn.” I wince and turn to Jeff. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to give him my school in Los Angeles. I wanted to look local.”

“I told him the truth. I said you’ve been with me for years.”

I wait for a barrage of questions or, worse, a lecture. Instead, Jeff blows me a kiss and goes back to his program.

I love him for that.

F
IFTY

Later, the two of us head to Male ‘Ana for a lesson in bartending.

Jeff is seated behind the bar in a chair, trying not to let his foot bother him, while I am standing behind the bar, waiting to be inspired by his tutelage.

Jeff picks up the soda gun from his end of the bar while I stare at the one in my hand. “As you know from Saturday,” Jeff begins, “this is your soda gun, which shoots out Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, 7UP, ginger ale, orange juice, soda water, tonic water, and plain water.”

I’m already feeling overwhelmed. “Looks complicated,” I am forced to admit, seeing the letters
L, C, T, Q, G,
and
O
on six different buttons, in addition to two larger buttons marked
SODA
and
WATER
, and mildly panicking.

“So was Coulomb’s law constant the first time you saw it, but I’ll bet you mastered that.”

“I love a man who can use Coulomb’s law constant in a bar,” I flirt.

Jeff smiles at me. “Okay,
L
stands for lemon-lime soda, which in our case is 7UP;
C
should mean Coke, but we use Pepsi here.”

“So why don’t you get a button that says
P
?”

Jeff smiles brightly. “Why did Albert Ghiorso name the ninty-ninth element einsteinium instead of marilyn monroeium?”

I think about the question for a moment. I’m embarrassed to have to admit, “I don’t know.”

“Which is the same as my answer to your
P
question,” he says, shrugging. “I have no idea.”

He goes through the rest of the buttons, and soon it’s as easy as the Pythagorean theorem.

So began my not-quite-one hour of unofficial bartender training. I learned some interesting stuff during those fifty-eight minutes, such as that calling the liquor
well, call
, and
top-shelf
works better because the terms
cheap-ass, doable,
and
trying too hard
never quite took off, and that chatting up customers is the main trick to getting good tips and good word of mouth.

Jeff ends his lecture with “Remember, if a customer is here drinking alone, ask if everything is okay without being too nosy. And always remember, our main clientele is the shiny-ring set. So ask them about everything wedding related.”

“Shiny-ring? You mean the newlyweds?”

“Yeah. I started calling them the shiny-ring set when I realized none of their rings had been dinged up yet, there’s no patina. Anyway, most bartenders have to deal with slightly depressed clients who want to get drunk and tell you all about their problems. Here, most of our clients want to tell you about how he proposed, what she wore to the wedding, the worst wedding gift they got, and maybe give a funny anecdote about his new mother-in-law’s twenty-four-year-old boyfriend.”

I nod. “Got it. Like being a bridesmaid all over again.”

“Kind of, yes. Except, in this case, you’re genuinely happy for them. Just remember, we’re not really selling cocktails, we’re selling dreams. These people just got married, they’re thinking about how perfect their lives are going to be, how many children they’ll have, cuddling up at Christmastime to a roaring fire, moving to a new home. And whatever the dream is, we get to be a part of that. So it’s actually pretty cool.”

“Okay,” I say, smiling, although the idea of cuddling up at Christmastime makes me a little sad at this moment.

“Why the look? Are you sure you’re up to doing this today?”

At that, my shoulders tense up in outrage. “I’ve known the guy for a total of about thirty-six hours. If I’m not fine, something’s wrong with me.”

Jeff jokes, “And by that you mean you’re not fine.”

I smile and say lightly, “And something’s wrong with me. Yes.”

Jeff smiles. “I like your style.”

In that moment I realize, “You know, I’m starting to like my style too.”

Because for the first time in my life, I am not obsessing over this breakup. I’m not wondering what I did wrong, not worrying about if I was too fat for him, or not smart enough for him, or not successful enough for him. That’s beta-dog thinking: How will the other dogs in the pack feel? Let me adjust how I feel accordingly.

No. I’m going alpha the whole way and only care about how I feel.

Leilani charges in, a woman on a mission. “Why is it all men are the same?”

“We’re not,” Jeff assures her. “The ones you’re choosing are always the same.”

“Seriously, what is wrong with men?” she says, tossing her phone and purse on the bar, grabbing an apron, and tying it around her waist.

“Honey, customers start coming in only half an hour,” Jeff gently reminds her. “We don’t have that kind of time. Just tell me what happened.”

She lifts up her phone for Jeff to read. He visibly winces. “Oh, swing and a miss.”

“Can I see?” I timidly ask.

Leilani shows me her screen. It’s the classic three words that rile up any woman (well, at least when she’s sober):

Hey, you up?

I shake my head. “And not even an ‘MFVodka.’ That bastard and his booty call.”

“Wha—? No. That’s not the problem. Look at the time.”

I read. “He wrote it at ten thirty in the morning,” I say, confused about her outrage.

“I know!” Leilani spits out. “What the hell kind of booty call starts at ten thirty in the morning?! What, do I have to feed you bagels first?”

Jeff and I look at each other. “Would you like to break it to her?” I ask him.

Jeff shakes his head. “Probably won’t do any good, but, Leilani, sweetie.” Jeff puts one hand on each of her shoulders and looks deep into her eyes. “Sharks are a real problem. Men propositioning you in bathrooms can be a real problem.”

“Can be?” I ask.

Jeff turns to me and jokes, “So many of them end up being senators. Gross.” Then he turns back to look into Leilani’s eyes and enunciate every word. “Men texting you at ten thirty in the morning is not a real problem.”

Leilani’s jaw drops. “You take that back.”

“If you want to talk to a woman with real problems, Mel just found out her guy is married. So let’s dial it back a notch.”

Leilani’s eyes widen. “Oh my God. Should I get the bat?”

Jeff rolls his eyes.

I blink a few times. “For what exactly?”

She shrugs, looks at me as if the answer were obvious. “We tell his wife, give her the bat, and point to his car.”

“Ummm … while that is very sweet of you, let’s keep that in our back pocket for now.”

“Okay. But I have your back. You’re Jeff’s ohana, you’re my ohana. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say, surprisingly verklempt at the sentiment.

Leilani looks at the phone one more time, sighs, and puts it in her purse. “I should have never MFVed.” She heads back to the storeroom to restock the red and white wine just as Ashley comes charging in.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had to swerve to avoid missing a—”

“Stop,” Jeff says. “Please, darling, do not say deer, chicken, or goat to me one more time.”

“Doughnut shop,” Ashley says, smiling and holding up a big pink cardboard box. “I just had that psychic feeling that one of us was grappling with a problem and would need doughnuts today.”

I decide to be touched that Ashley would be so attuned to my soul, rather than think the obvious—there are three women here today. Of course one of us would need a doughnut.

F
IFTY
-
ONE

I spend Tuesday night ever so slightly out of my comfort zone. Which is perfect.

I think most of us are happiest when we’re ever so slightly out of our comfort zone. Being out of your comfort zone means you’re experiencing something new, and we don’t often get that as adults.

When we’re children, we experience newness all the time: the first time we walk, the first time we see a balloon, the moment we finally master riding a two-wheeler. All of it is new to us, and each experience brings with it a fresh wave of happiness. And sometimes optimism too. The first time a baby talks in full words and gets his or her point across to Mommy or Daddy, what a feeling of joy that must create. How much more power and control did we all suddenly have in our world at that moment. Can an adult even imagine that feeling? Maybe that’s why children laugh so much more than adults do, appear so much more gleeful all the time—they’re still experiencing all of these firsts.

And we still have a few firsts as teenagers, not as many, but they’re there. I vividly remember the happiness I felt after I passed my driver’s test, and the drive to the grocery store that night, all by myself, to pick up a pound of butter and some baking potatoes for my mom. I felt alive. Anything was possible.

And I remember the butterflies I felt my first day teaching, being secretly terrified of the students, writing my name on the board, giving my first lecture. By fifth period, I was floating on a cloud as I happily paced around the room, perfectly explaining my first lesson, and giving the kids a math riddle about dots versus lines.

Of course, every girl remembers the first time she made out with a boy she really liked. The first kiss might not have gone as planned (braces can be deadly), and I’ve yet to hear a good story about the loss of someone’s virginity. But the first time that guy whom you’ve been dreaming about—soooo cute, too cute to ever possibly like you back—does like you, then kisses you for the first time … Ah, if I close my eyes, I can still sort of remember that feeling.

It’s no wonder women spend most of their twenties chasing men, dieting for men, dressing for men, undressing for men. We spend those years chasing the high of that first kiss.

How often do we get those moments by the time we’re in our thirties? The bike riding, the driving test, the first dream job, the first dream boy? It’s hard to keep finding firsts. Maybe one of the reasons these newlyweds come in here so happy is simply because they’ve never been married before. The beautiful girl sipping her champagne cocktail gets to use the word
husband
for the first time in her life. That is pretty damn exciting. And it’s one of the last firsts she may get in her life.

And now, completely despite myself, I have stumbled upon a new first. I won’t say that tonight I mastered the Micros computer, with all its buttons and drinks, but I am definitely on the way to making it my bitch. And I have quickly become a pro at shaking up the cocktails, pouring the wine in the right glasses, and chatting with the customers. (It didn’t hurt that I taped cheat sheets throughout the bar to remind me which cocktails contain rum versus vodka, or that you have to tilt the glass slightly when you pour a beer from the tap.)

Even cleanup was fun. Jeff has janitors who come in and do the real scut work, but we still need to bus tables, wash out glasses, and disinfect sinks. During that hour, Leilani hooked up her iPod to Jeff’s portable speaker system, and played every happy, silly dancing song from KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Boogie Shoes” to Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop.” Whistling while you work is good; polishing glasses while rapping to the eighties is golden.