The Day After is Always the Hardest

Birthday Night

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you…”

Jim gave each singer a dutiful glance, acknowledging their effort. He listened diligently for the third ‘you’, as if he was waiting for his number to be called at a deli. At the song’s conclusion, he smiled towards Charlotte’s phone and clinked his cranberry juice and club soda with her IPA to a smattering of light applause.

“Happy Birthday!” Charlotte said to him.

She put her phone back into her pocket and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

“Thank you for doing all of this. I’m not really a birthday guy,” Jim responded.

He thought back to the last time someone threw a birthday party for him. His ex-friend Stephen gathered some guys from the bar. At Seduction’s Gentlemen’s Club, he didn’t realize a caution wet floor sign was set up while ordering his twelfth drink. The bright yellow failed to stand out amidst the dancers and the laser show. He was never certain that his cover story, that he sprained his knee playing pick-up basketball, held up. Jim knew that it was a classic don’t tell anyone, but story. Could five people keep a secret that objectively funny?

“Wow, Chris, if sniping a booth was an Olympic sport, you’d be waving the American flag during the opening ceremony,” Marcus announced.

His remark snapped Jim back into the moment. The second of silence was broken by Chris’ cartoonish laughter. The braying clarified why Marcus insisted Chris sit in the front-row for his open mic night the day prior. As the group capitalized on the open booth, Charlotte slipped away to the bathroom.

“So, Jim, what do you do for work, bro?” Marcus asked, as the group sat down. “Charlotte keeps info about you under lock and key. You’re like the Area 51 of boyfriends.”

The group laughed, a bit harder than at the previous joke, as Jim sat smack dab in the middle. He twirled his straw, hoping that an interesting anecdote or commonality would magically appear inside his glass. A few small ripples formed.

“Even after she scratched, and cost us last week’s game, she still wouldn’t tell us about you!” Chris exclaimed, with an extra emphasis on the “still”.

“I’m a bank teller,” Jim said flatly.

A waitress hurried over and grabbed a few empty glasses from the booth’s previous occupants and smiled at the team. Two guys, whose names Jim couldn’t remember, snickered to each other discreetly. A bit of cranberry juice leapt onto his hand. A small tornado of sorts had formed in his drink.

Jim noticed Charlotte was finally out of the bathroom and dancing alone. A few other women, who looked dressed for an early aughts boyband show, were huddled in the corner of the makeshift dance floor. After ten, O’Hallihan’s lowered the lights and blasted that kind of “too new to be cool in a vintage way, yet too old to be cool in a modern way” music out of its half-busted speakers. He hated the whole schtick, even from the time when he was a regular. Back in the day, Stephen declared the dance floor the “Anti-Colosseum” and yelled that nobody was entertained.

The kind of song that gave instructions for partygoers came on. The huddled women ran to the floor’s center and began the coordinated moves. Charlotte joined in, albeit a half-step offbeat. Jim found her stuttered movements endearing. She reminded him of how a slightly off-center bow tie looks better than a clip-on.

The Morning After

Over the past eleven months, people had been asking Jim if his sobriety was due to a fitness kick. It happened frequently enough that he prepared a stock answer, the gist of which was that he was surprised that medium shirts were more expensive than extra-larges. It got a laugh about half of the time.

As he turned the corner for lap three of his morning ritual at Harrison High School’s track, that noted pattern popped into his head. Why was drinking the only avenue for conversation or connection? He had interesting opinions and authentic stories. Yet it was as if he was speaking a foreign language to others when they learned of his sobriety. The only way to bridge the gap between himself and his non-sober peers, as it had always been for differing nations, was through sport.

After stewing on that thought, he was interrupted by the memory that Chris was supposed to be here. Jim was slightly embarrassed by how long it was before the realization hit; Chris had given him a thumbs up to the proposed jogging plan, which Charlotte got the ball rolling on, last night.

On lap seven, the groundskeeper stopped Jim to inform him that the track will be closed for renovation starting tomorrow. The faded track numbers and cracking synthetic rubber made it untenable for any serious runner which, according to Charlotte, Chris was. For the rest of his eight-mile journey, Jim used this logic to justify Chris’ absence.

Yet, as Jim walked to his car, the need for a more honest explanation began to creep in. The scenic route, appealing by suburban standards, gave him extra time to ruminate. While at rock bottom, his father stressed to him that the friends you associate with are indicative of who you are. But what if you don’t associate with anyone?

This line of thinking triggered a memory. A fifth of eleven-month-old whisky sat idly under a blanket in the back of his trunk.

The Evening After

The day after is always the hardest.

The note, written on the back of a sandwich shop receipt, was fluttering wildly in Jim’s hand as he waited for Charlotte in his car. He examined each word thoroughly and placed it back into his wallet.

It failed to quell the sinking feeling he had. Unlike a fly darting towards their demise at the hands of an electric zapper, he understood the consequences of rummaging through his trunk. Yet the idea permeated his mind.

Before last night, Jim had not seen Stephen since he scribbled down that mantra.

Birthday Night

“Jimbo! Is that you?” Stephen had yelled. “I’ve been here twenty minutes, and I swore that was you.”

His appearance reminded Jim of a semi-humorous, but way too wordy, story from an old counselor. The through line was that the guy changed his entire life just so he would stop going to the same places every night.

“I’m, um, just here with some guys,” Stephen said as he carried on the one-sided conversation. “Let's hang out soon.”

“Sure,” Jim responded. He presented a blank stare to his former running mate.

Stephen placed a fingernail-first grip on Jim’s upper arm.

Jim looked him in the eyes and bobbed his head toward Stephen’s friends, hoping he would get the hint. The rest of the booth remained silent.

“Are you not entertained!” Stephen said at a volume that was startling but did not engulf the music. “Dude, Maximus, remember? We watched that movie a million times.” Stephen said as his legs began to wobble.

Chortles began to bubble from the booth.

“Relax and go back to your table,” Jim said firmly.

Jim didn’t know which was worse: the whispering and physical pointing that he saw from Stephen and his crew post-conversation, or the telepathic gossip that he could feel percolating at the booth. He whirled his straw more feverishly. The single remaining ice cube clinked on each rotation. By the time he tipped his glass over, shattering it, he was nowhere closer to finding an answer.

“Opa!” Marcus wasted little time yelling out the one-liner.

“Is everything alright?” Charlotte said, as she sped over.

“Can we go?” Jim whispered into her ear once he was face to face with her.

His tone, urgent but professional, was reminiscent of when she caught him bluffing with king-high at the family poker game.

The Evening After

“Have you had a chance to fix your taillight?”

Charlotte’s question was the first thing uttered by either of them.

“No, I will tomorrow. We won’t be out late, anyway.”

Another stretch of silence. Charlotte turned on the radio. The rest of the ride had a backing track of various advertisements. They pulled into the Wellington Diner’s parking lot before the music had a chance to come back.

“This’ll be fun,” Charlotte said. “And they have plastic sippy cups here in case you need it.”

Jim smashed the brake. He turned the car off as the jingle for Blinds-Topia entered its second verse.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte breathed.

“It’s ok,” Jim responded automatically, unbuckling his seat belt. “Let’s just go in and enjoy dinner. My mom said she’s calling to sing me happy birthday around eight. Did you know, restaurants have to make up their own versions to avoid trademark lawsuits?”

Charlotte grabbed a handful of his shirt as he tried to exit.

“Can we talk about last night? Marcus said you freaked out about some guy showing up?”

Jim felt sweat beading in his armpits. Without air conditioning, he worried that she would notice.

“Please give me an answer, J.” Charlotte placed her hand on his lap.

“Look, he was, ugh, just a guy I used to know. He was actually there, the night at Mickey’s Sub Shop.” The pitch of his voice rose at the end of the sentence.

“What are you talking about?”

Jim wondered if he could be fully transparent about who he used to be and keep her believing in who he is now. His vices may embarrass him, but they do not judge him. He could devise an excuse for her to go inside first, maybe say he must make a call, and be taken back with open arms.

The odor of his perspiration cut through the stale air. Charlotte remained still as she waited for his explanation.

“Oh, I swore I told this story,” Jim lied. “The last night I was getting after it, I was hammered and forgot to pay for my food.”

“Well, we all make mistakes, it coulda been worse.”

“I wish that was all,” Jim said carefully. “A cop saw what went down and brought me back in to pay for it. Turns out he knew my dad.”

“Yikes. And he didn’t help you?”

“Stephen? Oh, no.” He let out an exaggerated laugh. “A guy like that evaporates when the fun dies. I hope you don’t hold this against me.”

“But you aren’t that guy.” She pursed her lips and paused. “Just be yourself, and people will appreciate you like I do.”

He turned to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. There was a multitude of words he wanted to say but also endless starting points. The tension he felt made it clear to him that he had to keep the conversation going.

A horn blared behind them. Jim quickly noticed they were parked in between two spots. He raised his hand to signal an apology.

“If parking were an Olympic sport, you wouldn’t medal,” Charlotte said in her best attempt to mimic Marcus’s voice.

They cackled together across the parking lot, and to a booth in the diner. A few feet away, a group of early twenty-somethings were recounting tales from the night prior over a bottle of wine. Throughout the meal, Jim indulged in intermittent glances. Each one a beat longer than the previous.

He excused himself to the bathroom but instead slinked out to the parking lot. Before the thought fully formed in his head, the trunk was open. Mere seconds later, the fifth was in his hand. The unique thrill of catching right where you left off with an old friend consumed him.

“Whatever,” Jim sighed as he screwed open the top and poured the whiskey on the ground.

He returned to the booth. Charlotte pointed to a slice of cake with a lit candle. He faked a smile and hoped she wouldn’t sense his anguish.