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For my eighth anniversary with Tori, I adopted one of the Gentoo penguins for her. Unfortunately, she left the week before I could give the certificate to her. I named him after the U2 front man. So, I go and sit with Bono on my own. I can always spot him quickly, even without looking for the little band around his foot. He’s a connection I can have. He’s still a constant. Once in a while, he’ll waddle up to the glass and just hang there. I’d like to think my little buddy knows who I am.
I’m running for all the reasons I usually do today and one more. Wes Taylor only takes the word no for so long before it becomes irrelevant what you say. He’s tried to get me to go out for the last six months. Nothing crazy, at least nothing crazy byhis standards. He insists I need to simply wade into the meeting other people cesspool, even if I don’t drink.
I could always hold him off with a work function or a good nondescript prior engagement. However, tonight, he said there was a surprise waiting for me, so my normalnoornot tonightcould fuck right off. He’s even going to pick me up so I can’t back out.
When he lets himself in with his key at nine thirty, I’ve got U2 on and up, nursing a beer as I pregame on my couch. “Jesus Christ, will you fire up?” Wes tosses my jacket at me. “I won’t push the clear potential we’ll see tonight at you, just don’t be a Debbie Downer, would ya please?”
“Look, I’m going along with this because of your shitty insistence. Don’t push it by forcing me to like it.”
Our circle of friends has hadTop Gunstyle call signs since I can’t remember when. It would be easier to say how long we haven’t had them. We’ve either taken a persona or had one given to us. For better or worse, Wes and I are Maverick and Goose. He’s the cocky shit, and I’m the cleanup wingman specialist. They couldn’t have been better suited for anyone else.
Crowds, especially when I feel like this, are not my friend, even when we go someplace I know like the back of my hand. Rooftop 93 has been a hangout for us for years. We’ve celebrated birthdays here. We’ve celebrated work milestones. Now, tonight, I suppose Wes sees this as another milestone of sorts.
The last of the happy hour crowds mingle with that of the crowds coming in post-show, concert, or simply after an early movie time. Laughter from every corner of the bar hits me like knives behind my eyes. I slide the pads of my fingers along the undersides of my glasses before I grab my IPA and head for the outdoor patio.
The sun has moved deep behind the skyscraper lined skyline leaving the deep rich blues of an impending night sky a comfortto the headache that seems to find me this time of day like clockwork. Small bites of several conversations invade my ears from behind as I look off in the distance toward my apartment.
I could hear what seemed to be a first date. When I turn around with my drink in hand, a college age pairing is huddled on one of the benches along the cocktail rail. She looks like she’s hanging on his every word with a smile or a touch of her fingers across his arm.
Just behind them is a group of young male professionals, well, younger than me at least. They’re settling into a healthy debate on who is a better goalie all time, Patrick Roy or Marc-Andre Fleury. I look down into my beer and shake my head. “Flower. Every day, all day,” I whisper to the suds in my glass.
“Are you shitting me? Have I taught you nothing?”
As I look to my left, the cocky figure of my friend, Sam Roark, in our group he’s call sign Iceman, leans against the rail next to me. “You’ve taught me anything?” I ask.
“At least humor me by getting it right. How the hell are ya, Goose?”
I offer Sam my hand, but we go in for the hug anyway. “I’m good. I’m here anyway.”
“Fuck. Sometimes here is all a person can do.”
“What are you doing in New York? I thought you were sticking pretty close to home.”
“Home is a great thing my friend. It hadn’t felt like home in years. I can thank Lucy for that.”
“I think you can thank yourself for a lot of it too.”
“Yep. Three and a half years. I was an idiot for not getting here sooner.”
“Congrats. Seriously. It doesn’t bother you being around it?”
“Nah. Not when I have everything in the world to stay sober for.”
Sam Roark was adopted into the friend group about ten years ago. Wes has always introduced me to many of his clients. Sam seemed to fit more than others. His carefree attitude and our mutual love for hockey were instant connectors. It didn’t matter where he was playing, Tacoma or Seattle, we’ve supported him from the East Coast. And when he hit rock bottom, he needed us to help keep him grounded and support him even more. Now it looks like he might have been brought in as a closer to help Wes get me back in the game.
“So did Wes fly you in as a part of his save Eli campaign?”
“Look, he’s your brother for all intents and purposes. Even if he’s a tool.”
“I heard that,” Wes hollers across the crowd, barely skipping a beat in the conversation he’s having with a beautiful blonde server.
“Why do you think I said it?” Sam fires back. “Make yourself useful and get me a coke. Get this one another of whatever he’s having. We all know he wallows in beer and not the hard stuff.”
“Fuck off.” I lightly shove him before heading for the bench along the rail that’s just opened up.
The not so gentle grip on my shoulder shows me that Sam followed my lead. “Wes worries about you.”
“He doesn’t need to. I’m fine.”
