The Last Time I Died (3 page)

What if we had met later in life?

What if we had tried counseling earlier?

What if I was a person of stronger character?

Yes, the contemplative possibilities are rich and fascinating and, although ultimately fruitless, have armed the old boy with plenty to ponder as he pours himself into another extended evening of overpriced spirits and impulsive aggression.

Tonight’s activities take place at a venue similar to our last encounter, only slightly lower toned. This is not to say our man’s taste is faltering. He is simply changing things up. Adding a bit of variety to this long, slow drift into nothingness.

Look around and you’ll see a class of people who are more than comfortable paying good money to be seen here. Further, the customers in attendance, for the most part, did not attain their social or economic position as a matter of accident or coincidence. At least half of every couple here is a person of ambition and determination, and to some degree, obstinance. And so, as the evening’s shenanigans begin, the response to the old boy’s behavior is not unpredictable or surprising in the slightest.

—Another one.

—Grey Goose martini, olives, up. Yes, sir.

If you’re the nosy type, you’ve already observed and noted the four spent olive skewers lined up in front of our man’s almost empty glass. Not unlike the skulls certain primitive tribes will post on spears outside their village as a warning to potential trespassers. You’ve more than likely also calculated his upcoming drink to be the fifth of this very early evening.

The martini is produced in record time and served up with the same precious showmanship as the previous masterpieces.

—My shift is ending, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll run your tab and start a new one for my replacement.

Our man waves his hand to indicate that this is a nonissue. He is hitting his stride and shan’t be concerned with such trivialities as money or manners. His posture is foreboding. His breath is a weapon. His demeanor is a charismatic malignance. He scans the room for new arrivals.

Oh, my. There, a few seats down, in the black dress. You probably saw her come in, but our man was too busy with his own myopic reflections to notice until now. He quietly inventories her various physical attributes. She’s attractive, but on the far side of thirty. She’s confident enough to sit at a bar alone but her cosmetic enhancements do signal a need for attention. Her potential for illicit entertainment is intoxicating. His predator eyes narrow as his reptilian brain assumes command, superseding whatever discretion may have lingered from the few hours he spends sober these days.

In his perfect world, our man would sweep this temptress off her feet, shower her with effortless conversation, witty compliments, and his own personal brand of winning charm. The poor girl would swoon and her heart would race and she would fall truly, madly, deeply in love with him. She would beg him to be hers forever, to never leave, and to promise his everlasting devotion. She would give herself to him fully and completely. She would sacrifice her dreams and relinquish her ambitions. She would forsake her family and friends to slavishly worship at the altar of their romance. She would be his.

In this fantasy world, our man would wait for that particular moment wherein the transformation from stranger to lover was complete, look deep into her eyes, savoring her unwavering vulnerability, the purity of the moment. And then he would crush her dreams and break her spirit and ruin her for all other men. Grinding her into the powdered version of the fiercely independent woman she once was. He would complete the act by walking away without explanation or hope for reconciliation, perhaps chuckling to himself about how easy the task had been. Some women never learn.

But you know as well as I that our man hasn’t the immediate enterprise or long-term resolve required of an endeavor of such scope. He enjoys the fantasy, though. A satisfying scratch to the itch that has of late been a constant in the back of his angry little mind.

As the old boy weighs the likelihood of success of the various options of approach available to him, he is interrupted by the thoughtless bartender.

—I’m sorry, sir, but your card was rejected. I ran it three times.

Well, that certainly puts a damper on whatever strategy was bubbling up in our man’s consciousness, no? Or perhaps it serves to catalyze tonight’s inevitable meltdown. One might even picture the old boy grateful for the unexpected surplus of fuel that his self-loathing psychological apparatus burns at such a high rate. Hurrah!

Our man takes his card back and carelessly drops five twenty-dollar bills on the bar. Small embarrassments like this are best left in the past as soon as possible.

—Keep it.

—Thank you, sir.

Our man sips his drink and returns his attention to the unavoidably beautiful woman in the black dress.

—Can I buy you a drink?

—Doesn’t sound like it.

To be fair to the old boy and his growing rage, she makes no effort to look over when responding. Clearly a move calculated to intensify the humiliation our man is now enjoying. He was attempting to move on from the shame, for God’s sake. And to top things off, she raises the drink she already has with a hand that bears the diamond wedding ring on which some lucky fellow apparently spent a great deal of money. The nerve!

As far as our man is concerned, she has done the heavy lifting for him. He has been unequivocally forced into the corner he so desperately wants to be in. He affects a tolerant smile, fishes another twenty-dollar bill (his last) out of his wallet and slides it slowly in her direction, savoring the drama microsecond by microsecond.

—Well then. How about a blow job?

Ho ho! Now he has the whole of her wide-eyed attention. She even turns slightly to face him—an added bonus for the old boy as she’s allowing a better view of her prominently displayed décolletage.

It is unclear whether the brief silence that follows our man’s inquiry is due to her being stunned speechless or her gathering her thoughts before launching a concise but vicious riposte. We shall never know.

The gentleman with whom she arrived when our man did not see her enter now approaches, sliding a smooth, territorial hand across the small of his bride’s back.

—Our table is ready.

—This guy called me a hooker.

Her significant other bristles as blood rushes from his brain to his muscles.

—Excuse me?

Upon further inspection, you’ll notice the lady’s escort is a man of great physical stature, naturally thick and exercised on top of that. A brute. Watch as he presents a posture of alpha male, leaning in toward the drunk who is noticeably thirty pounds lighter and five years older. Our man’s face falls into the easy smile of inevitability.

—Sorry.

The old boy lets his apology linger as he sips what he knows will be his last drink in this bar. And by sip, obviously, I mean gulp. Despite his gag reflex flaring in response to the sudden harsh intake of vodka, he gallantly presses on, delivering his final word on the subject.

—Easy mistake with that perfume.

Well, the husband’s meaty fist striking the center of our man’s face is no surprise to any of us. What is worth noting is the ease with which our man absorbs the blow. He flies backward, taking a few of the beautiful but uncomfortable bar stools with him. Nearby waiters swarm the combatants and the manager chirps for them to be expelled and the crowd watches the most exciting thing that will happen in their presence tonight. For them it is shocking.

Neither fighter resists as they are escorted quickly through the front door of the establishment. In the case of our man, this is all going as planned. As to the muscular gentleman, there is the matter of defending his wife’s honor—in his mind, a state of affairs far from settled.

Outside the restaurant, our man, there on the sidewalk, holds his hand to his nose. Not to stop the bleeding—an impossible task at this point—but to feel his own blood racing out of him. To know that he has accomplished something. A few more punches to his face and a final kick in the gut leave the old boy a soiled mess on the pavement. The husband of the lady in the black dress finishes the job by spitting on the side of our man’s face as he lies there motionless. The old boy manages to cough out a loosened crown and some of the blood that clogs his throat. It is the one act he has managed tonight that is not contrived for attention.

The most delicate hint of a smile crosses his face as he fades to black and we take our leave, the work of the evening finished.

It’s one of those perfect summer evenings.

A man I met less than five minutes ago is punching me in the face. His form is magnificent. This guy has put in some time at the gym. I wonder if he ever fought Golden Gloves or anything organized. He definitely should have. Pretty sure my nose is broken.

I’m wondering why things never work out for me. Why I never get the lucky breaks. What could I have done differently in my life? What other choices could I have made? What other paths could I have taken? Could I have been a different person or is this who I was always destined to be? What could have been?

This is my time to think. Me time.

The guy is breathing heavy from the exertion of bitch slapping me. He says some sort of Clint Eastwood tough guy thing to me but I’m not paying attention and don’t want to be distracted from my internal monologue.

Why has my life taken the turns it has? Why (aside from my obvious breach of etiquette) is this guy on top while I’m on the bottom? Why has the universe decided that I should be a loser? I’m not talking about the ass whipping I’m enduring right now. That I’m grateful for. I mean in general. Big picture. Taken as a whole, I’m not thrilled with my life. I didn’t ask for it to end up this way. I tried to avoid a lot of it but I never got the breaks. Why are some people lucky while some aren’t?

I mean, look at this guy’s hair. It’s perfect. He’s got an amazing hairline even in what must be his early thirties. Not an iota of recession. And he’s tall. Wonder if he talks to his parents on a regular basis. Probably has a healthy savings account. Investments. I bet his kids are handsome. His son will probably lose his virginity before he’s sixteen and not knock up any of the dumbshits who fuck him in high school. I bet this guy started a business on his own and sells something that makes him money and he doesn’t have to answer to a boss or sit through meetings he didn’t call. I bet his employees treat him like they like him and only motherfuck him a little when he’s not around. I bet his wife still thinks he’s cute and they’ve been married for seven years already. I bet she thinks he’s interesting and a good provider and a great father and they talk and share and enjoy each other’s company. I think she’s looking at him right now like she’s a little turned on. It’s hard to tell with the blood in my eyes. Lucky guy.

I could be wrong about all this, but I don’t think I am. This guy has it better than me. Why is that?

It helps for me to clear my head sometimes. Take a moment and try to figure it all out.

This is my meditation.

It occurs to me (as he winds up for what I assume, judging by my fading consciousness, will be his final blow) that the most difficult and critical parts of a marriage are composed of the most forgettable interactions. It’s not the grandiose wedding ceremony or getting the right dinner reservations for Valentine’s Day or buying her the emerald necklace for your third anniversary that’s important. It’s smiling when you pass each other at home on a quiet Sunday. Or remembering that she likes a little extra basil in her pasta sauce. Or offering to drive because she doesn’t like the highways and it’s not that big of a fucking deal for me to do it. That’s what makes a marriage strong and long-lasting.

Now I realize. This is my epiphany.

No way this guy knows that. No way he’s intellectualized it, analyzed it, wrapped it up in a nice, neat package like I have. But I figured it out. It just took a little thinking when this fucktard is hammering me with his bitch wife getting wet in the background. I bet he never figures it out.

Who’s lucky now, asshole?

*It’s three and a half years ago.

I’ve been dating Lisa on and off again for six months.

I won’t say it’s against my will, but I’ll say it’s close.

I’m sitting across the table from her at our third-favorite restaurant. No way I should have the glass of wine I’m ordering but that was also true for the glasses before it and the one I’ll have after it, so fuck it. I’m watching her face and thinking she’s so beautiful when she smiles and thank god I found her and I’m waiting for her to say the wrong thing so I can pounce on it with some passive-aggressive bullshit because that’s what we do. You have to enjoy the good stuff while it’s there.

—Another Shiraz, please.

The overly attentive waitress makes sure I know she approves of my selection before padding off to leave Lisa and me back in our own little romantic world.

Dating isn’t the right word. I feel that’s a little formal for what we’ve been up to. This thing we have is more visceral. Feral. What do you call it when mountain lions get together? Are they the ones that mate and then the female eats the male? I might be thinking of the praying mantis. But Lisa moves more like a mountain lion.

My stupid ex-girlfriend, Dana, brought Lisa around a couple more times after our first inadvertent meeting. She never asked if she could, they just showed up as a twosome. So I kind of blame Dana. Once she even dragged Lisa to a dinner at my apartment that was supposed to be a congratulatory affair for a friend who landed a big job. The friend was neither my stupid ex-girlfriend nor Lisa so I’m not sure why I invited Dana or why she decided that it was so important to bring her uninvited plus-one. Maybe Dana was trying to set us up. No. She’s not that smart. I knew she would bring Lisa.

Our mutual distaste was palpable, although both of us liked to confuse it for sparks or chemistry or whatever makes you grab someone at the end of the night and grin conspiratorially and kiss them passionately and tell yourself four hours later that you’re a god damned idiot and what the fuck were you thinking? But then it’s too late and all you can do is continue to sop up the vomit you’re cleaning off the floor and hope you can fake sleep well enough in the morning that she’ll take off without saying goodbye.