Drinking to Remember

Drinking to Remember


The stool was heavy wood and took a bit of maneuvering to get it close enough for me to lean my elbows on the also heavy wooden bar. The bar was a far darker wood than the stool.


The bartender, complete with a blue-striped bar towel, edged over in front of me. He was maybe 70 years old, but he had an earring and a beard, all gray, as well as a dark green wool stocking cap. Perhaps oldest hipster I'd ever seen.


What can I get you, he asked. His voice was scratchy and soft.


Something from my twenties, I said.


Going way back for your first shot? he said more as a warning than an encouragement. He made no motion to pour me a drink.


You're right, I acknowledged. Let's hit the forties first, maybe even late forties. Put it in a highball glass though. I want to take this one slowly.


He nodded and reached under the bar. He placed a tall, thick-walled glass on the bar in front of me. He used tongs to drop in two large square ice cubes one on top of the other. I wondered if they would fit, but they did. Just barely. Then he took a dark green corked bottle off the wall, the top was smooth, but the bottom half was ribbed horizontally. He poured a small dash of the thick syrupy liquid over the ice, it was mostly brown but had a slightly green tinge. It coated, more than dripped down, the two stacked ice cubes. Then he poured some standard rum over that, and filled the glass mostly the top with cola. Lastly, he produced an amber-colored glass cocktail stirrer, almost as thick as my pinky, and swirled the contents one, two, three, four and a half times. He removed the stirrer as he slid the glass to my fingertips.


Enjoy, he said.


I closed my eyes and took a first sip.


We were at the lake front, sitting on rocks that made up a broken stretch of revetment. The water came to our feet. It was summer, but the water was still cold. Michigan. It was my son and I.


Was this the memory I wanted to sip? I asked myself.


I couldn't remember how this conversation went. Was it one of the final good ones, or one of the disappointing ones? Too be fair, they were all mostly a mix of bitter and sweet until we got closer to the end, at which point they were mainly the same sour conversation about misaligned expectations. We both wanted more from each other, which, I knew, was more unfair to him than to me. I should have been more forgiving.


I took another sip.


My son was twenty-one, then. Only just. He had already secured a job in finance, but was second guessing the career or taking the summer after college to find himself. I was, wrongly I now know, adamant that he start his career.


Work hard for three years, I counseled, and save up. Then you can use half of that money for your travels and you can return to the other half in the bank when you get back.


I could tell he didn't like that advice, and it pained me to relive it. I had forgotten that I was so direct, and so wrong. But this was before he got ill. Before he was stuck to his job due to insurance.


He was correct not to like my advice. It turned out to be terrible guidance. And the final wedge in our relationship.


We spent that afternoon discussing the alternatives, me being more and more proscriptive as he became more and more compliant to my wishes. I wish now that he was more like me in this one area, more hard-headed and less willing to listen to the voice of so-called experience.


The cold lake lapped at our toes as the weather, and our moods, became greyer.


I'm going back to the rental, I said, as I stood up.


I think I'll sit a while more, he replied, toeing circles in the small strip of rocky sand between the revetment and the lake.


Not to your liking? the old hipster bartender asked, breaking the memory.


The glass was still half full, the ice cubes now smaller than normal sized.


I shook my head slowly. I'll finish it, I said. Not all memories are what you enjoy remembering.


I took another small sip.


My wife was sitting on the porch reading her Kindle on one of those white Adirondacks you find at every rental in Michigan, an empty glass and bowl sat on the wooden table to her side.


Mind if I sit with you?, I asked. She was too engrossed in her book to even notice my arrival. You could see the lake from the deck, but only slivers between the houses across the two streets between there and the water. Still, it was a peaceful view.


We sat, her reading and me watching the rippling lake in front of me and also watching my wife, more lovely than I recalled, to my right. Her feet were bare and her knees pulled up onto the seat as a book rest. My memory was annoyance at her lack of initiative, but I now understand more what emotion I was feeling.


I had taken this part of my life for granted. Both my son and my wife were on my side then. That changed a couple years later, deservedly so, since the seeds were more than planted by this time.


My wife laughed, she has a sharp musical laugh, and said overly loudly, I didn't see you come back. She must had had to repeat it louder to break my revery. Did you have a good talk with Pete?


I shook my head. We just don't seem to connect, I muttered.


He's twenty-one, she replied. This is not the time fathers and sons connect.


I sighed, knowing it was more than that, but said, I wish it were.


Give it more time, she added, then touched her Kindle to advance the page and disappeared.


I was holding an empty glass to my lips. The remaining ice cube, now a small splinter, was stuck in the bottom of the glass.


I shook the glass, increasingly sharply. The ice shard swirled around the bottom but would not dislodge. I squeezed my hand into the narrow glass but my fingers could not quite reach the ice at the bottom.


Banging the glass on the bar did the trick and I was able to then tip the ice shard into my mouth, bringing a brief flash of the view from the porch with it. My wife was truly lovely and content then. Not just my spouse, but also a friend. Why didn't I realize it? Why didn't I value that?


Ready for another? the bartender asked, blue-striped bar towel still in hand.


I nodded, but he stood unmoving. Eventually, he smiled and asked doubtfully, Not the same again, I expect?


I shook my head. Something earlier, but not twenties, I replied.


Thirties? Teens? He asked.


Teens would be interesting, I thought. I remembered my teens no more strongly than the storyline of a book, and certainly not with any lucidity of sensation. But I shook that feeling away. I wanted more depth than I knew I would get from myself as a teenager.


Can you hit me with exactly thirty? I asked.


You know I can't, the bartender replied. He shrugged. I can get close, but - he waved his left hand towards the bottles on the wall behind him - this is an inexact alchemy.


I nodded, then chuckled. That I know, I said.


My thirties were my best years. I actually think my thirtieth birthday was the pinnacle of my life. Not that anything special happened that day, the usual friends calling you out for being old, even the ones who were already in their thirties. The impromptu party was in our backyard, if I recall correctly, and we sat at the picnic table which had already seen better days by then, as the children, two of our own and four or five of our friends' kids, played on the new fort-slash-swing-set which I had customized from a kit only a few months prior.


It was a nothing special day, but it was the beginning of the downwards trip. A trip that should have continued upwards for many years, maybe even until now. Or longer. But I lost focus and started to expect more. More, as I understand now, than having absolutely everything. More than everything.


How about late twenties? I asked? As close to thirty as you can get without going over.


The bartender smiled, a genuine smile with only slightly yellowed teeth, and nodded. That I can get you, he said.


The End.