Not a single friend asked if I was okay being left alone at Streetbar. They just vanished. They still haven’t asked about it.I am sick and tired of being the tonic water in a cocktail, the one thing nobody notices is there but is essential to making the drink cohesive.
After being dumped at Streetbar, I ended up taking an Uber to Ralphs before it closed for the night. I shopped for this week’s meal at midnight alongside drunks, crazies and lonely people with carts full of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and boxed wine.
Lord, I am a broken record playing the same Petula Clark song.
As I shopped, I grew so angry at being the responsible, overlooked one yet again that I went through the self-checkout and shoved the most expensive items into a bag when the single cashier on duty wasn’t looking. My final receipt for today’s meal was only twenty-one dollars.
On the way home, the pit of my stomach filled with remorse, so I tried to fill it with a bag of cherry Red Vines, part of my illegal contraband.
I woke at dawn, showered and dressed. While everyone continues to get their beauty sleep, I am now cooking to keep the family together and our traditions alive.
I open the fridge to begin pulling ingredients and see a bottle of tonic water.
Would anyone even notice if I was missing from our communal cocktail?
I sigh. The fridge is a mess again.
I cannot find the pepperoni I placed in the cheese drawer, so I begin to search for the carrots and celery, which I finally realize were moved from the crisper at some point and wedged under a bowl of...
Something congealed and deeply disturbing.
I remove the cling wrap to find a yellow clot of cold cheese flecked with red. I pull my glasses down to the end of my nose for a closer inspection.
My pepperoni.
I open the built-in cabinet that hides our trash. It is overflowing. On top are egg shells along with an empty package of pepperoni and containers that once held the Gruyère and Swiss I was planning to use in my scalloped potatoes. Beside that is a half-empty jar of maraschino cherries I was planning to use for my pineapple upside-down cake. They were used for late-night cocktails—the glasses are still in the sink—and obviously to top the empty container of Häagen-Dazs I was planning to serve with my cake.
I take a deep breath.
Re-center, Ron. It’s all going to be okay.
I remove the trash—because it’s pissing me off so much to look at it—and take it to the garage. I add a new bag to the bin and then begin to load the dishwasher. It is full. It has never been unloaded. I walk over to look at the laminated sheet I posted for the week: Barry did not run and empty the dishwasher, and Teddy did not empty the garbage.
I place my hands on the counter and stare into the majestic mountains surrounding us. I say a prayer I remember from childhood.
“Almighty Father, in this moment, when it feels like the whole world is against me, I turn to You, my rock and my refuge.”
When I finish, I unload the dishwasher, then reload it, place a pod in the dishwasher, start it anew and hand-wash the glasses in the sink. When I finally finish, I decide to start over. I open the fridge to retrieve the sirloin.
I open the wrapper. Half the meat is gone.
Steak and eggs. They made steak and eggs when they were drunk.
The world around me turns to static, and I do not realize I am screaming until Teddy, Sid, Barry—along with a very hot shirtless young man who came over at some point last night to see Barry—are standing before me.
“Are you okay?” Sid asks, eye mask atop his head.
“What is going on?” Teddy asks. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“You scared the hell out of us, too,” Barry says. He puts hisarm around the shirtless guy, who looks to be about a third of his age. “Are you okay... um...”
Barry hesitates uncomfortably.
“Vince,” the young man says. “My name is Vince.” His face droops, and his mountain-y shoulders slump. “You told me you loved me last night.”
“I know what you’d love,” Barry deflects. “A big breakfast.”
“Yeah!” Vince rubs his taut stomach and then stretches. Eyeballs hit the floor.
