Dating : Someone is Always Having a Birthday

It was a rainy day, at least early on. I heard the rain falling on the driveway through my open bedroom window. I got up around ten, checked my e-mail. “No new messages on server.” Checked my phone recorder and caller ID, too, just in case someone called after I’d passed out in front of the snow-covered tube the night before. Confirmed the prior day’s knowledge. Phone hadn’t rung for four days, now five. No calls. Not one. Five days ago The News had called and wanted me to subscribe. I hung up on them. The ID said my Mom called three days before that. ‘Call lasted a little over four minutes. I didn’t remember the conversation.

I was hung-over. I couldn’t go in and do work, so I stayed home to clean. Loaded a couple of piles of laundry in the machine all at once, loaded the dishwasher, vacuumed the floor. Moved the dining room table so I could mop and wax. Decided that would be the major project for the day. Mopped the floor, ‘figured it was time for a nap. Got up again about noon. Didn’t feel like waxing yet, so I took a shower instead. Did all the personal hygiene things nobody ever writes about: clipped finger and toe-nails, flossed, scraped my face with a razor that was a little too dull and made my neck red. Checked my ears for wax with the one of those cotton-wrapped tooth-picks. Confirmed there were no pimples, that I was still too young for nose and ear hair, and that my eyes weren’t as red as they’d been a couple hours’ before.

I remembered I’d started laundry, so I put the two-in-one load into the dryer. Started a couple more piles in the washer. Kids hadn’t been around for awhile, so I decided to do their sheets and towels.

The rain let up, but not enough to dry out the wood I needed to finish the deck. Like my head wanted to hear the whine of a radial arm saw and a drill, anyway. Besides, my project dejour was waxing the floor, not finishing the deck.

Fine, fine, fucking day, all-in-all.

It was two o’clock, so I decided to eat something. Food should stay down by now. Checked the refer. Science projects. There was some cold pizza, but it was a week old and still in the box. Pretty stiff. I ate the points off the three remaining pieces, tossed the rest. Nuked the last can of Chicken and Rice soup, popped another beer, dropped in a shot of whiskey for good measure, and started feeling human again.

There were a couple of things I needed from the store, so I decided to go shopping. Had to hit the office first. I used my last check at the bar the night before, had to get more from my desk. My partner was working on Sunday, so we exchanged pleasantries. He asked me if I was going to stay and work. I said “No,” I was still hung-over. He said I smelled like it. And that was after four hours and a shower. ‘Must’ve had more than I remembered the night before. I left with my checks and headed for the warehouse store (can’t mention it’s name, but it’s spelled with CAPITALS and is like a COST COMPANY, or something). I heard their stock was doing pretty good, too. Maybe it was all the drunks that shopped there, I don’t know.

Walked the aisles, didn’t buy as much as usual. Saw blades, deck screws, some cleaners and a different wax that was suppose to be easier to spread. EASY TO SPREAD sounded fine to me. It had been awhile. I find I miss some things about women more than others.

Went to another store on the way home. One of my flower pots had cracked. Didn’t know how. I hadn’t moved it, at least that I remembered. Bought a couple gallons of paint, too, and some socks. The socks were on sale. Pretty cheap. I hate paying full price for socks and underwear. Got another can of chicken soup in case I was in the same condition Monday morning, then left that store. On the way home, my car steered into the local grocery’s liquor store. I’m sure it did it by itself. After arriving I got to thinking I was pretty low on beer and almost out of whiskey. I thanked the car, brushed off the dust and patted the dashboard. It was a good car.

Alcohol in the trunk, I headed for home.

From the liquor store, the car steered into the local watering hole. I decided it was fate, so I stopped for a beer or two. Parking lot was real full for a Sunday at four. Curious.

When my eyes adjusted to the darkness (taking my sunglasses off helped) I saw a shit-pot full of black balloons. All of them were printed with white lettering, “40” or “Over the hill.” Ah, birthday party. Must have been someone pretty special. They didn’t lockdown the establishment for just anyone.

I sat up at the bar, the only respectable place to sit in a local drink-is-why-you’re-there-bar, and found the place wasn’t locked-down after all. It was Debbie’s birthday. Debbie had worked the establishment as a barmaid.

To say Debbie was a barmaid was really an understatement. Really couldn’t call her a friend, unless you consider everyone that calls a cab or gives you a ride home when you can’t walk a friend. Then again, who could be considered a better friend? I guess she was a friend. Hadn’t seen her in awhile, no rides for awhile, either.

Debbie was really cool and special, though, and I was happy people were celebrating her birthday. She was pretty as well as nice. Very feminine, ample breast, but not as ample as her smile. Nice legs, too, and her arms were in good shape — no fat there, boy. She used to put four or five pitchers on a platter and walk the lanes. (The Trophy is a bowling alley bar.) She walked over to the bar to buy drinks for some of the people at the party, and she saw me. She smiled and waived. I waived back and said Happy Birthday. She said thanks and came and gave me a hug.

Deb and I weren’t ever what you’d call close, but I wear a hat, and she always liked it. We always talked about hats. Her guy-friend, Tony, noticed, and started buying her hats. Tony is cool, too. He’s small, but only in height. Built like Arnold, great handshake, always smiling. He treats Debbie right, too. With more than just the hats. One night Debbie sees me sitting in a corner booth before I make my way to a respectable seat, and she says she’s been waiting to see me. That was different, but it’s a different bar and Debbie’s a different girl. Both in good ways.

She sits down bringing her own full mug, sporting a beret. It looks good on her. It’s maroon, and it contrasts her blonde hair. I think she’s naturally blonde, ’cause her hair has been the same color for five years, ever since I first remember seeing her. Most women who color their hair change in that time. That’s something I never understood. I like all colors of hair, including grey. It’s mature. Who wouldn’t want a mature woman? Or a natural one? Hell, coloring is just one more disguise. Women wear enough disguises on their fingers, toes, ears, and bodies. Let’s see who you are, and to hell with what you can cover-up. O.K., no soap box, at least in this story.

Well, I go to take a piss, and when I show up again, Debbie’s in a felt black top hat, like the Cat in the Hat, only black instead of red and white. “How do you like this one?” she asks. Well, I say something like O.K., but it doesn’t look as good as the beret. I don’t think it was supposed too. We talk about it, order a couple more beers. She goes to her car for another hat. Then another. And another. We talk about all of them. I don’t know, a couple pisses, three or four beers, and a half hour later Tony comes up in his usual cheerful way, says “Hi,” shakes my hand, and asks Debbie if she’d mind if he drinks alone. ‘Nuff said. She excuses herself and goes and sits with Tony. That’s the kind of people they both are. Just cool.

So I drink a couple more beers, decide a birthday party isn’t where I’m suppose to be, and drive home.

I put away the soup and stuff, and figure there’s no time like the present to wax the floor. One coat, wait, fold laundry, two coats, fold laundry, check e-mail and the recorder, still no messages, three coats, the floor is starting to look O.K. (it’d been months since I’d even mopped), and I have another beer or two.

I think about calling someone, ’cause I’m lonely. Can’t call my partner, he’s pissed ’cause I’m not working. Can’t call the last girl I dated, ’cause she’s pissed that I didn’t say I loved her after we had sex. She has another beau now, anyway. Hell, it had been almost a week. A woman with breats like that doesn’t stay on the market long. I think about calling the woman I love, Tammy, but she doesn’t want to hear from me and I haven’t talked with her in months, anyway. She’s found a winner, got married, doesn’t need a loser. Not even to hear from one. Can’t call Mom or Dad. What parent wants to hear from a hopelessly drunk kid? Can’t call my kids ’cause I’m drunk. Their mother would take them away from me. Even for the half-time I have them.

Well, I spread easy-coat four, gather all the garbage in the house, look at the pile of ironing, and decide to go back to the bar.

Debbie’s party still has a food table set, but the bar is pretty-well back to normal. I sit in the corner to start, like usual, watch the pretty girls who would be considered homely if I was sober, or even if they were in the light, and have a pitcher. Debbie, pretty, nice Debbie, and Tony, cool, decent Tony, are playing pool and ask me to take a stick. Tony even let’s me play partners with Debbie. Cool people, like I said. When I just can’t shoot anymore, and drop the stick for the second time, I retire to the bar. Mellisa’s tending now. Laurie went home and I hadn’t noticed.

I switch to gin and tonic. Every drunk has a drink that seems to sober him up, at least until the next day. G&T’s for me.

I wished Debbie a happy birthday one more time, get a hug, and get a handshake from Tony. Cool people.

It takes me a couple of minutes to get the closet door open, set-up the ironing board, and grab another beer. I stuff a long movie into the VCR, Braveheart, Waterworld, Where Eagles Dare, something like that (though I’m not comparing the quality of any, since I can’t by this time of night) and iron next week’s white monkey-suit shirts.

I start on a pair of pants for my kid, his Scout pants, actually, and run out of beer. Time for a whiskey-Coke.

I walk by the recorder on the way to the fridge. A light is blinking. Maybe it’s Anne, maybe, just maybe, it’s Tammy. I push the caller ID. It’s Mom. Great. I mean I have a great Mom, but my third call in five weeks was suppose to be Claudia Shaffer or someone. Hell, I’d settle for Kathy Lee Gifford. Frank really screwed-up. I can tell from the titles on the grocery tabloids. I get my drink and go iron some more.

Ironing is done, movie is over, and three or four more drinks are down, as well as half the fifth. I’m thinking about an excuse I can come up-with for my partner so I can sleep another one off, and I see that recorder light blinking, still. I guess I’m loaded enough to see what Mom has to say.

“Happy Birthday,” she said, among other things. ‘Guess it was my Birthday, too. I forgot. But I guess everybody has one.