Spiro came over to my place
around seven that evening wearing billowy high-waisted pants and a pink silk
shirt unbuttoned to the navel and stood in the kitchen with me with his hands
on his hips and his chin raised. I wasted no time opening a bottle of Chivas
Regal and filling two tumblers to the brim. Bottoms up, I said, raising
my glass for a toast. You have to drink it in one go, I added, tipping my glass
to my mouth. Spiro followed suit, but after drinking only a third of the
whisky, he paused, lowered the glass, and held his free hand to his mouth to
avert retching. Indeed his chest heaved several times, but he managed to keep
down the whisky, and I grant him full marks for that as on other occasions his
efforts disappointed me and left me feeling friendless and alone in the world.
Pinching my nostrils, I
drank my whisky down in one large draught and then a smaller one, steeling
myself for the after burn. Tears sprang from my eyes and I failed to witness
Spiro finish his whisky and for a moment considered the possibility that during
these moments of perceptual difficulty, he had furtively drained the remaining
contents of his glass in the nearby sink, a sin under any circumstances but an
egregious one given my plans for the evening. I told him we still had whisky
left in the bottle. He said he couldnt and wouldnt drink another
drop but changed his tune when I made a criticism about his shirt. Its
not pink, he said, its salmon and any one with a life would know the
difference. Youre too sportivo, my friend, I told him, too susceptible to
superficial trends.
I recalled how for a time
he carried around a man-purse for which he was mercilessly belittled, although
in retrospect, a man-purse to carry around a cellphone and Kleenex and maybe
even a little face moisturizer or lip balm isnt the most vulgar idea. I
emptied the remaining Chivas Regal into our glasses and we toasted again, our
glasses Dangerously clinking. Spiros face already looked a little melted
and I didnt know if it was his slackening face or my eyes creating this
effect. I finished the rest of my whisky, checked my watch, and grabbed my car
keys from a bowl on the kitchen counter. I figured we had about fifteen minutes
to get to the club before I started losing muscle control.
We need to go right now, I
said. We have little time to waste. Spiro asked if I was sure I was able to
drive and I told him not to be a wuss, that I drove better when I had been
drinking and that I had never been a car wreck despite driving intoxicated
evidenced the truth of my assertion. Ill be good for about fourteen more
minutes so get the lead out. Alright already, Spiro said. Guy cant even
let his buzz catch up to his brain. I observed Spiro was salivating profusely
and told him not to puke in the car as we hurried out of my apartment with him
on my heels.
We took the stairs to the
underground parking lot and jumped in my Jeep. It wouldnt start at first
and I began to panic because I could feel my limbs loosening up and my mouth
edging to the right of my face like that of a stroke victim. Possibly concerned
I was having a stroke, Spiro told me to relax, he had this. Im good with
these things, he said and proceeded to pound the dash with veritable violence.
Hey, I said, easy on the friggin dash. Youre going to bust it all up. He
told me to try the ignition again. Youe kidding, I said. Try it again, he
said. I did and to my surprise, the engine started. I had no idea how his
punching the dash had corrected the problem and I wasnt going to ask, I
had no time for chitchat.
We drove downtown to Still
Life, a trendy dance club we used to frequent when we were several years
younger, several pounds lighter, and boasting full heads of hair and a sharper
fashion sense. Just as I pulled into the clubs parking lot I started
seeing double but didnt panic. Spiros head lolled and drool
dribbled from his mouth so I knew to keep an eye on him though I saw two of
him.
At first the
black-turtlenecked behemoths at the doors stood firm and would not let us enter
even when offered generous bribes. They said we were not fit for the club and
cited a list of reasons that I had difficulty countering. Look at your friend,
the larger of the two doormen said. Hes tanked. Hes sloppy. And
hes wearing a pink shirt. Its salmon, I said. The smaller - albeit
still enormous - doorman stepped forward. Youre being smart, he said. No,
I said, I argued with my friend earlier about the shade of his shirt and he
insisted it was salmon and not pink although I fail even now to discern the
difference. You talk pretty good, the smaller doorman said. His thick neck and
beady eyes brought to mind a Tasmanian devil. Hey, Bobby, he said. Let these
two guys in, theyre cool. The larger doorman, whose nose occupied the
spot normally reserved for the left cheekbone, deferred to his mate with a
snort, glaring at me dismissively as though he knew who I was and thought he
had narrowed down my peccadilloes and understood my nature more than I
understood it myself. In another life I would have chopped him in the
Adams apple and kicked him in the nuts and then stomped his head to a
pulp.
I zigzagged into the
flickering, booming club. Spiro held onto my sleeve, his eyes lidded, lips wet,
tongue jabbing in and out of his mouth like a salamander. The swirling lights
and techno beat quickly made me so vertiginous I had to lean against a wall.
Statuesque women stood around the dance floor or languidly danced in pairs and
trios, not quite knowing what to do with their unnaturally long and willowy
arms. Young men with glistening coifs and sparse facial hair also stood around,
many amassing near pillars and walls, eyes glazed, mouths half open.
Spiro abruptly tore away
from me and headed for the washrooms clutching his stomach and groaning like a
wounded beast or a perforated bagpipe bellows. A waitress in red plaid with
enormous bosoms and wide-gapped eyes approached me and asked what I wanted to
drink and that she couldnt bring me just water because management frowned
on it so Id have to order at least one drink. At the second mention of
the word drink the entire club began to spin and the waitress whirled before me
like a voluptuous fish-eyed dervish. I excused myself and dashed off to the
washroom, knocking into other patrons and pillars, drooling, my stomach
convulsing, a cold sweat bursting on my forehead. Spiro occupied a stall, as I
discerned from the soles of his shoes - visible under the stall door, one of
the heels boasting blackened chewing gum - and the distinctive timbre of his
retching. Spiro, I said, Spiro. Are you okay? Tell me youre okay, man,
tell me. I heard him gurgling and puling and my mouth began to water and my
diaphragm spasmed.
The idea of vomiting in a
public washroom disagreed with me, emotionally and psychologically, the
ramifications too shattering to dwell upon or enunciate, but then again I had
lost the freedom of choice at that moment and unconsciously sought out an empty
stall and a cool and comforting toilet bowl, only to find one plugged up by
wads of toilet paper, urine, and feces. Without bending down, I retched and
retched and retched until I had exorcised myself of the Scottish demon.
People who drink Scotch
pretend to be refined, particularly those veiny-nosed stuffed shirts who fancy
peaty single malts and while away the afternoons in velvet-and-brass mens
clubs talking about the stock market and their mistresses. I have never
pretended to be refined, primarily because I intuited that in time I would be
unmasked as a fraud and humiliated by someone who resembled Philip Seymour
Hoffman, rest his soul. And my judgment of Scotch drinkers is based solely on
cursory observation and the full force of my imagination, for which I cannot be
faulted as the possession of an imagination is what defines us as human. Show
me a gorilla who can imagine himself on the moon or tell a story about his
childhood and I will slow clap and celebrate the wonderful mysteries of nature,
the kinship we share with the great apes, and the ephemeral quality of life in
general, but that is another story.
For this one Ive
stuck to the facts and have enumerated them as accurately and truthfully as I
am able, notwithstanding natural and for the most part unconscious biases which
I cant suppress or control. I quickly moved to the taps and washed my
face with cold water and tried my best to wipe the vomit off my trousers with
paper towels which only made more of a disgusting mess of them. Spiro continued
his violent expurgations and for a brief moment I felt enormous sympathy for
him and for myself and for the entire world and all the people in it, all the
pathetic, vice-filled, and stupid people. To think we were hurtling through the
Milky Way at enormous speeds and carrying on with this silliness without
feeling fear and without giving any of this enormity and complexity a second
thought. That said, we are not brave, we are not heroes. In the car, when a
lugubrious and hair-plastered Spiro leaned very close to me wheezing his
whisky-and-vomit breath and asked me if I was fit to drive, I burst out
laughing. I laughed and laughed until my abdominal muscles ached and my jaw
muscles cramped. An interminable moment of silence passed. I could hear Spiro
breathing from his mouth. I turned to him. He stared out the windshield with
his mouth open and his eyes closed. Remember that time we polished off that
bottle of Chivas Regal, I said, and drove down to Still Life and puked our guts
out in the washroom? Do you remember that, Spiro? Do you? Good times, eh? Good
fucking times.