“Seriously, Marco, what is your problem?” Rebecca chides me in that way only a big sister can. Standing in the doorway to their guest room and my temporary residence, she scowls at me as I flip through the channels on the small TV in my room. She’s wearing tight dark wash jeans and a Flyers hockey jersey. Her hair is dark like mine, straightened and pulled back into a tight ponytail. “The entire time you've been here you've been off. Has something happened to you? You stay hidden away and keep to yourself; you barely speak to me; Vinny and I have invited you out to dinner, invited you out to see the game with us, invited you toparticipatein this fragment of a family that I’m desperately trying to keep together, and you’re shutting us out.”
“I’m still a part of this family,” I seethe.
“Then act like it!Fuck, Marco. Let us in! I'm worried. Nonna is worried, too."
My nonna is worried about me?I haven't changedthatmuch. I'm just stuck. Cutting people out of my life hasn't been easy, but I didn't think it was going to alter how I act.
Regardless, I don't want to sit here anymore and listen to her, and I certainly don't want to talk about it. With a huff of anger, I launch myself off the bed. I drop my sweatpants and pull on a pair of old jeans over my boxers.
“Going somewhere?” my sister says through clenched teeth.
Pulling on an Army hoodie and a beanie, I shove past her. “Anywhere but here.”
Walking in the cold night air, the sidewalk is clear, but a light dusting of snow starts to fall. My breath forms puffs of white in front of my face but the temperature doesn’t bother me. I barely notice it with all this aggression coursing through my blood. Even if I did notice the cold, I would welcome it. I’m sick and tired of the heat in Afghanistan.
After walking aimlessly for a while, I come across a dive bar called Dirty Frank’s. This bar has clearly been here for-fucking-ever and I have vague memories of being here years ago.
Let’s go ahead and make tonight the same. I want to get loaded and block out my thoughts. Block out my life.
Stepping in, I take in the low ceiling, countless framed pictures and knickknacks and banners strewn about. Everything seems to have a layer of dingy film and I can barely see the actual wall behind the chaos. The dive is fairly busy, but there are a couple stools open around the rectangular bar located smack dab in the middle of the room.
Striding up to the wood-paneled bar, I take a seat next to some people engrossed in their own conversation. Not moving from his spot and pouring a pitcher of beer from the tap, the red-headed bartender eyes me and raises his brows. “Yo, what’ll it be?”
I notice he’s pulling an IPA, and that settles it for me. “I’ll have the same thing.”
“Pint?”
I shake my head once. “Pitcher.”
And I’ll probably get three more after that.
With no acknowledgment, he sets the full pitcher down and grabs an empty one to fill it. He passes another patron theirs and then slides me mine with an empty plastic cup and leaves.
Wasting no time, I pour my IPA into the flimsy cup and take a few deep gulps; the cold carbonation and bitter taste of hops swirling in together in perfect harmony.
Aerosmith blares throughout the space as I sit brooding. Not bothering to pull out my phone to distract myself from the self-inflicted mess I’ve made, I glance around the cluttered bar. A couple of older women are playing pool, a few guys are huddling around an old pinball machine, shouting at the player who’s trying to concentrate but seems too drunk to even stand.
Finishing my last sip of this first round, I begin to pour another when I feel a gust of cold air blow in from the outside.
“Dibs!” I hear a male voice shout as he suddenly appears, hunching over the empty stool next to me, clutching it like a life preserver.
A woman closely runs behind him, trying to knock him away, but he’s not giving up. She’s wearing a black hoodie with a Carhartt jacket over it. She’s slim with pale skin and short, white-blonde hair slicked back over her fade. She has several piercings in her ears and nose.
“What happened to you courting me? You should give me the seat!”
The guy uncurls himself from the stool but bows his elbows out, not letting her get past him. He’s wearing a tan overcoat with a black scarf. His black hair is nicely styled, albeit a little disheveled from running to the bar, as it flops over his forehead. He looks entirely too nice to be in a bar like this.
Looking over his shoulder at her, he tells her, “You’ve had every empty seat at every crowded bar we’ve been to tonight. It’s my turn! And you know, I’m beginning to think you’re just stringing me along,” he says with narrowed eyes.
She takes a step back and shoves him as he finally sits down and he turns to her.
“Are you just now getting that, Jay? I’ve been telling you all night you can’t join our soccer team, but you’ve insisted on, as you put it,courting me, so that I’ll let you join.”
I can’t help but stare at this interaction playing out next to me. His eyes go wide and jaw hangs open. “So you’re going to?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Bud, for the hundredth time, no. You’re not a woman. This is a women’s league.”
“But gender is a construct!” he whines.
