“Oh, did I not mention that she brought the cat, and that the cat was actually an old cardigan with a thin leash around it?”
“Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “We’re still going out tonight, right?”
“Nine o’clock,” he says.
“Beautiful.” It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. “I think I just need to get out there and get shitfaced.”
He laughs. “You always say that, but after cocktail number one… well, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen you finish cocktail number one.”
I ignore him. Tonight’s a night to get hammered and make some bad decisions. “I’ll see you there.”
I hang up the phone and try to visualize what life is going to be like. You know, as soon as I’ve clawed my way out of the hell that has been this week.
* * *
By the time Mike and I are at the club, I’m starting to forget about the relentless cavalcade of freaks and psychos.
Ultra-repetitive dance music can do that to a person.
Just to prove that I’m not such a cheap date, I order my customary cocktail—a tequila sunrise—and a sidecar.
I’m not entirely sure what a sidecar is, but it always seemed like the thing to order at a bar.
“I’ll bet you a shot of vodka I end up drinking at least one of those,” Mike teases.
He’s lived here his whole life. In fact, he’s the one that got me the interview for my current position.
Mike and I met when I was 17 and I came through Manhattan on a school field trip. He helped me find my hotel after I got lost trying to find Tiffany’s.
What can I say? I loved the movie.
“You’re on,” I tell him, and down the sidecar in a single tilt.
It’s a terrible idea—I realize that before I finish the thing—but it gets Mike’s attention.
“So, how much of the sunrise do I have to drink before you give me my shot?”
“Hell, I’ll buy you the vodka now just to see what you taking a shot looks like.”
“Drop the money,” I tell him.
As his back is turned, I take in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to vomit right here.
He turns back to me, shot in hand.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s see it.”
“I’m not drinking it straight, though,” I tell him. “You’ve got to at least get me a chaser.”
He turns his back again and I sit down on the bar stool.
I think I’m already feeling the alcohol setting in.
I’ve never been much of a drinker.
“You doing okay?” he asks.