1
Joey
Drunk people act so immature.Common sense, any filter they may have had, and all decency goes out the window.
I can’t believe it. Is that how I act when I’m drinking?
I sure hope not. And to be honest, I can’t really believe that I do. Drunk or sober, I try to keep a cool head on my shoulders. Although, I’ll admit I’m not always successful.
The guys in my battalion are clustered around the old jukebox at The Pulaski Bar, busting each other’s balls, and clamoring for attention from the fairer sex. Harper’s flexing for two blondes. Manny has his sights on a petite little thing with hips to die for. He keeps whispering in her ear. Sweet nothings, if I know Manny.
The women don’t seem to mind much. This is a firefighter bar and the ladies who come here know it. They’re here because they want to be hosed down, if you know what I mean. I’m not trying to be crude; I’m just saying . . . well, it’s true what they say: chicks dig firefighters. Could be the fact that we stay in shape. Or that we’re often seen in a heroic spotlight. I don’t know. Could be the red suspenders.
In this line of work, everyone needs to decompress. And what better way to do so than in the bosom of a woman. I might be a ladies’ man, but I treat every woman who comes into my life — however briefly — with the respect she deserves. That’s just how I was raised. My mom made sure of that.
Usually, I’d be over there with the guys, matching them drink for drink, helping them toast fallen comrades and insult the living ones, and turning a blind eye to their performance of stupid stunts.
You see, I’m known as the wild one in our crew even though none of us are exactly tame. I just tend to take things a step further than most. That’s just how I’ve always been. Extreme. A risk-taker. I’ve had exes say I’m a bad boy. But I’m not a fan of that term. I enjoy life to the fullest and make no apologies. If that’s bad, then I don’t wanna be good.
So, what’s my deal tonight? Why am I nursing a glass water, sitting all by myself in a corner booth?
Because Sully Boxcars used to sit right here with his Jameson on the rocks. Checking out each and every woman who walked into the bar, deciding which one he was gonna hit on — that is, in his pre-Rose days. Once he met Rose, he only had eyes for her.
We called Sullivan Carmichael “Sully Boxcars” because he always had a pair of dice in his pocket — his “lucky dice.” We spent countless hours rolling the bones with him between fires. Sully almost always won. It was uncanny. We’d accuse him of cheating and beg him to tell us his secret. He’d just shrug, give us a little wry half-smile, and say, “I’m telling you, it’s the dice.” Hell of a guy.
He died a year ago yesterday. And tonight, as I think about all the good times we’ve had, I just don’t feel like drinking booze. I want to honor his memory with a clear head. No matter how bad it hurts. So yeah, I’m not having so much as a drop of alcohol for the entire evening. I’m just going to sit here with my water and think about Sully Boxcars. That red-haired bastard.
Damn, I miss that guy.
I take a sip. It’s got a slight bleachy taste. “Wild Thing” comes on the jukebox. I fight the urge to tap my foot. I’m determined to have zero fun. The same amount that Sully’s having.Seriously, Joey — that’s a little dark.
I scan my surroundings. Jax spotted me and is now dancing his way to me. He’s terrible at it. He confessed to me once he was super uncoordinated in high school. “You’re no ballerina now,” was my response. But in all seriousness, I’ve got nothing but respect for Jax. He’s one hell of a lieutenant. Does his job with pride and professionalism.
But that dancing is at Elaine’s level from Seinfeld. And he’s grinning like an idiot. I sigh and brace myself for impact.
“Joey!”
I lift my glass of water. The lieutenant clumsily knocks his mug of beer against it.
“Is that water?” Jax asks, hovering over me. He’s pretending to be appalled, but it’s obvious he can’t contain how happy he is. And how drunk.
He recently married the love of his life, a gorgeous blonde named Julia — a real sweetheart — and ever since, he’s basically been living on cloud nine. Walking on sunshine. At times, it can be a little . . . trying.
Like, tonight especially.
“Yeah,” I say. “Agua.”
“Porque agua, señor?” Jax says and takes a seat across from me. His Mexican accent is no better than his dancing.
“I’m not drinking tonight.” I hang my head and fix my eyes on the surface of my water. My long hair falls in front of my eyes.
“Hold on,” Jax says, leaning in a little closer. “Joey DeStefano —theJoey DeStefano — isn’t drinking?”
“Bingo,” I say.
“Dude, I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m speechless.”
I shrug.
