Excerpt from whiskey

Allyssa Bujdoso 1 Excerpt from “Whiskey” The bar has a sudden pop of business. People I know and am friends with, and then people I’d rather not know or have any knowledge of flood into the room. My ex lover is DJing.

I hate the term lover, but I could never really call Johnny a boyfriend. He is a 41-year-old loser who has not managed to grow up or get his life together in any semblance of a way. On a day where I’m feeling kinder, I could say he’s living his life as a “free spirit,” but really he’s the poster boy representative for all Peter Pan men, the men who never grow up, never settle down, never get a job beyond door man or DJ at a bar, never have children. Or rather if they do have children, we immediately know to feel sorry for those kids, those kids who probably only see their Dad’s on the weekends and probably go to shitty apartments that aren’t suitable for children. The only thing those apartments are appropriate for is late night drug use, after hours partying, easy fucks, and hurriedly scrubbed mismatched glasses filled with water to try and offset a never-ending hangover. The glasses are always filled between the hours of 4 and 6am, much like the people drinking them. I haven’t been in that apartment in months, but we still share a work environment.

Angel, a woman who willing has shortened her name, Angela—to Angel, confidently walks up to the bar and squeals out, “This is my very good friend! I love her!” to the neverending professionals who party that she brings with her. Then to me, “I’m so glad you’re working! I’ve been wanting to talk to you! How are you?” I immediately tense up, this is the woman I stole Johnny from, for a few months anyways. Eventually, I found out the nights that I couldn’t be partying non-stop with him because of school and homework, or open mics, or life in general, because you have eventually have to take party breaks, and at a certain point you have to trust someone if you’re going to be with them, that he was still occasionally sleeping with her.

Allyssa Bujdoso 2 Angel and I have had talks, drunken moments, while he is right in the background and both of us have agreed the many times he has embarrassed us, that we were both sorry, that he was the asshole, that we were ashamed to have stayed with him when we knew about the other. I can sense she wants to have another talk. She orders a Kettle One and soda, I make the drink and pour her a whiskey to do a shot with me, just because I want to see her squirm. Vodka drinkers can rarely shoot Irish whiskey and keep up with me. It’s just a fact.

I move on to other customers. I can feel her watching me; I can feel Johnny watching me.

Every time I look up, I can catch one of their sets of eyes darting away. Men who come into my bar, the regulars, the alcoholics that I make my money off of often talk, some of their wives at home raising their children, and then of their mistresses. They often complain that they are in unhappy marriages but are staying for the kids, but if they get into a sentimental drunk, you might catch them lamenting over their awful ways and their failings husbands and fathers. Then they say the ugliest things about their side chicks, “They were only good for one thing. I filled their holes. I used her for her mouth and that was it.” Machismo runs wild in any bar.

Johnny and I would lie in bed and talk about things. Ways that people had hurt us, ways we had hurt ourselves, sometimes I would cry, sometimes he would cry. We would stay up in a hazy alcohol and cocaine induced repeat rendition of pain, fumbling to connect on a deeper level than sex. We talked about our ex’s, he wanted to read my work, and we’d do more cocaine. We often lasted until the morning rush of traffic. The times we fought, it was about his or my lack of ability to connect. The sex was great, but two people who have shut down emotionally can only half participate in superficial exchanges when all interactions happen when you’re at the bar, partying or trying to stay high after hours. We never did anything else.

Allyssa Bujdoso 3 Angel wants to share another moment, of “I’m so sorry’s,” and the “we should really be friends,” lamentations. Her eyes are burning into me, and I walk over because it’s my job and I’m just hoping she’ll order another round of drinks.

“I just want you to know that the night we met you, that night at the bar, I wanted to be your friend, you were my friend. I can remember laying in bed with Johnny after not seeing him for two months after that and asking him, ‘You slept with Allyssa, didn’t you?’ and of course he says, ‘ Yeah.’”

I, of course, know that Johnny and I met long before that night. I let it go and continue to listen, and she continues on.

“And so I wanted you to know, we’re giving it a real shot. We’re giving me and Johnny a go—exclusively. And I mean I think we can both agree, I’m the only one who really gave him a run for his money.” As the words come out of her mouth, she has realized her mistake. You never say it out loud; it’s like jinxing yourself.

“Good, I’m really happy for you guys!” I force a smile and congratulate her.

I turn away and his eyes catch mine. His eyes full of lust and desire, even a harem of women won’t be enough for this man. I look back at Angel, I am full of clarity, and I am not concerned, I finally feel like I’m ok. I have grown, if even only a little. She is the only one who stayed.