I'm twenty-eight
I light a Marlboro.
Flicking the Bic in the dark.
Feeling the frost beneath my feet.
And take a deep drag. Love that first inhale. Know it will kill me.
Take another drag.
Dark fields on both sides of the road.
It’s a few days before Christmas. A cold snap has settled in.
I’ve left the party. Judy still inside. Our host had begun reading a poem. A deep rich melody of sweet words that touched everyone in the room. I could see it in the faces. It hit me that I could never be him. His children, parents and one remaining grandparent were in attendance, along with his wife, and many neighbors. It was an old and respected farmhouse. A warm fire. High ceilings. Huge tree, decorated with old things that had meaning from long past Christmases.
The loss hit me.
I don’t know how we knew these people. Judy met them somehow. We were living in our newly built house on Bainbridge.
I can hear the laughter from the house reaching out into the silent world. I take another puff, drop the butt and grind it out with my foot thinking, wondering how I can reinsert myself back into the party, without people noticing.
They noticed.
“Ted, your name is Ted, yes.” Said with concern not condemnation. I feel my cheeks flush. Search for a lie…
“I just needed some air.” Then knowing he could smell the cigarette on me said, “I had a rough week. Needed a smoke.”
Manly I thought. He moved away. Then came back with a glass of red. Handed to me with his other hand on my shoulder. “You’re amongst friends here.” Then drifted off to his other guests gathered around the piano where a couple had settled and started to play a duet.
Alone. Glass of wine in hand. Feeling even more out of place. Judy across the room talking happily with people I’d met but can’t remember their names.
The room is warm. The fire burning down just right. The tree beautiful. The room full. People all happy and engaged with each other. The sounds of the piano duet in the background.
I’m uncomfortable in the extreme. Must get over to Judy. Make some excuse. Get out of here. What to say? I move through the crowd, trying not to touch anyone, spill any wine, be invisible. Reaching Judy still not knowing what to say. So, I drop into an old fave…
“Beautiful evening, wonderful home, lovely people, I’m not feeling well…”
“Did you drink too much wine, I warned you…”
“I don’t think so, this is only my second. But I feel terrible. Flu? I don’t know. I could just leave. You can stay. Could someone drive you home?”
She assured me she could get home.
I left as quickly as I could. Thanking no one.
Noting the cold. Lighting another as I get in the car. Feeling the shame.
Don’t know why I remember it all so vividly. Over fifty years ago and I remember the frost on the road.
Your story spoke to me. Not connecting.
I used to take a paperback to high school parties, keggers. I never became a drinker, and the only three topics at these events appeared to be: 1. How drunk they were getting. 2. How drunk they got in the past. 3. How drunk they planned to get in the future. I was so bored I needed something to read. It didn't dawn on me until college that I could seek out my tribe and hang out with them. Finding members of that tribe is an ongoing quest.
Ted, your writing/storytelling gets more vibrant with visuals each time. There’s another song right there, in that room full of friendly strangers. Together alone.