We Only Smile When We're Drunk

It was a typical Wednesday night at The Lodge. $3 drinks and a lazy crowd of vagrants, alcoholics, and all around skids. Most of us drank alone. The lights were dim and the crowd was thin, my favorite atmosphere. The music played softly, but just enough to muffle the conversation around us, to which I was happy about, I didn’t give a fuck about what other people had on their minds. I was with my best friend, Jake Davis. The only guy I fully trusted, the only guy I didn’t think would stab me in the back the second he got an opportunity. We were both 23, we were both drinking with the intent to get smashed, and we were both achieving that common goal. “Alright Gin, one more shot then I’m getting out of here,” he said, using the nickname I acquired after a month long bender of gin and tonics. I drank 23 26ers of gin in 30 days. The name kind of came along with it. Jake spoke as if I asked, or begged him to do another shot with me. “Do what you gotta do kid. You know I’m in.” Jake raised his arm up and called the bartender to our end of the bar. He ordered two shots of Sambuca, and she quickly delivered. Jake was focused on his cell phone, so I smiled at her and quietly said thanks. She smiled back. She was new, I wasn’t sure of her name, but she had a nice smile. I was surprised they let her run the closing shift so soon. We clinked our glasses and swallowed the shots, I laughed as he grimaced. “You know for a drunk you drink like a pussy.” I said. “Fuck you Gin,” I laughed at his response. People were always off-put by our banter, and I can say I understand why. The way we argued back and forth you would think we were either an old married couple or bitter rivals. It sometimes felt like the latter. Jake swallowed the last of his rye and coke, “Alright I’m outta here, you sure you don’t want to just come and crash at my place tonight?” By “his place” he meant his parents house on the other end of town. They had a giant, beautiful home, complete with a perfectly finished basement that I was always welcome to sleep in. That night I just didn’t feel up to it. Something I’d regret later. “Thanks but no thanks kid; I’m gonna chill here for awhile longer, too fucking depressed to leave.” I said with a grin. “I’m too depressed to stay,” he said, grinning back and throwing $25 on the bar, “later bro.” He stuck out his fist, so I bopped it with my own. “Take it easy dude.” So there I was, alone at last. It felt good, as much as I loved Jake, it was nice to just sit and drink alone for awhile. My isolation lasted as long as my drink did, which wasn’t very long. Then the new waitress made her way over. “Another one?” She asked me, her voice just a tad above indifference, perhaps annoyance. “Please.” I answered, keeping my eyes on the large T.V. showing the baseball game. She returned quickly with my drink, I decided to make some chit-chat, maybe a little company wouldn’t hurt after all. “Thanks, hey, what’s your name?” She laughed at my question, not a loud laugh, more of a giggle really, but one way or another it confused the shit out of me. “Seriously?” She asked, “You don’t remember?” I laughed myself. “No? Should I?” “Well we had a pretty long conversation last Wednesday.” I chuckled to myself again; I forget I was even there last Wednesday. I remembered starting the night at my normal hangout, Shamrocks, but I couldn’t recall going to The Lodge. Mind you, I rarely if ever, remembered leaving the Rock. “We did?” I asked, still smiling, “You probably shouldn’t have served me that night lady, I don’t even remember coming in here.” I always found honesty was the best policy. “So you know my name then?” “Pete, and that was Jake who just left. You guys were funny, Jake was so drunk he kept falling asleep mid-sentence.” “What about me?” “You rambled on about writing.” Now she was smiling. I hated when I started talking about my writing, I felt like a fool. “And you had to listen? My condolences.” She laughed, I liked her. Liked her at that moment in time anyways, that moment in a dark bar on a cheap drink night, sitting by myself. She had tired eyes; eyes that claimed to have seen too much. I saw earlier that she had a great ass and great legs. She was pretty, or at least looked that way to my drunken eyes. I wanted the conversation to continue. “So what is it then?” “What is what? My name?” She smiled, “Mia.” “Mia…” I repeated, feeling it out in my mouth, “It’s pretty.” “That’s what you said last time.” “I mean it this time.” She made a mock gasp at that. “You mean you didn’t last time?!” She exclaimed. “I can’t remember,” I decided to cut the shit and get to the point, “Listen, what time are you closing shop tonight? Maybe we can have a drink together at my place, or your place, or whatever?” She seemed taken aback by my question, but only momentarily, she regained composure and smiled a warm smile. “You asked me that last time as well.” “I did? What did you say?” “I said my boyfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate that.” She answered, almost sympathetically. “Hmm. What did I say?” I asked, gulping the rest of my still very fresh drink. “One more as well please.” “You said, and I quote, ‘he can come and be the third wheel’. Very clever.” She answered with a wink, walking away to grab me one more. It sounded like something I would say. Oh well, I thought. Did it really matter anyways? Did I need another night of fucking a stranger to feel better about myself? Probably not, but still, one can’t help himself to at least try. She wasn’t all that interesting anyways, the only words that popped out of her mouth were words I'd spoken in the past…big loss. So there went another attempt at some form of love. A failed attempt.