“Just,what?” I spat angrily.
“Coasting,”he finished, regret blazing in his kind, sympathetic eyes.
Thatstung. It stung a lot. But, determined to not let it show, I concluded, “Yeah,well, maybe I’mhappyjust coasting,” before I left the kitchen in ahuff.
***
I onceread about a woman who, even though she was on a diet, enjoyed watching otherpeople eat dessert. She said it was enough to live vicariously through otherpeople, indulging in the things she couldn't let herself have.
Thatwas me with booze. After years of substance abuse and rehab, I had sworn offdrugs and alcohol. But, while I couldn't drink, I enjoyed the atmosphere of abar. I liked the grit. I liked that everyone came together with one goal inmind: to get drunk. And while I couldn't partake, I wanted to, and that wasenough to feel connected with these people.
Iwas sat on a stool, bellied up against the bar with a glass of Coke in hand. Iknew it wasn't booze, but to anyone else, it looked like it could've been. Thebartender, a buddy of mine called Goose, for one reason or another, wiped downa martini glass as the beginning notes to Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Sweet Home Alabama”blared through the speakers.
“Sonof a fucking bitch!” he shouted, throwing the rag down on the bar. “Can someonein this place change the goddamn song?”
“Ah,come on, Goosey. You love this song,” I teased, bringing my glass to my lips.
“Oh,yeah. And you know what my favorite thing about it is?”
Iplaced my drink back onto the bar and gestured for him to go on. “Please, tellme.”
“Ilove that these people insist on playing it over and over and over again.That's my fucking favorite.”
Isnorted, shaking my head and knowing he was partly right. The jukebox was a hotspot at Goose's bar, and he had made sure to keep a wide selection of music inits library. But for some unknown reason, the song that got the most attentionwas always good ol' “Sweet Home Alabama” and over the years, I had watched myfriend slowly lose his sanity over it.
“Youknow, youcouldget rid of it,” I pointed out. “I mean, I dunno ifanybody has told you this before, but youownthat jukebox.”
“Yeah,except that,” he leaned his elbows against the bar and came in close, loweringhis voice, “what if this fuckin’ song is the only reason people come to myshitty little bar?”
Chuckling,I shook my head, as I glanced in the direction of the surrounded jukebox. Drunkgirls danced with equally drunk guys, singing at the top of their lungs andlaughing as if it wasn't the fifth time they'd heard it tonight.
“Huh,”I muttered, before turning back to him. “Maybe you're right. Maybe your successall comes down to this one freakin' song.”
Goosenodded, eyes widening, as he said, “That's what I'm sayin', man.”
“Maybe,”I lifted a finger, “you should be more grateful, then.”
“Oh,hell no.” He backed away from the bar and grabbed another rag, slinging it overhis shoulder. “Never gonna happen. I mean, I won't get rid of it, but I'm notgonna stop bitchin’ about it, either.”
“Fairenough.”
Theconversation drifted off, replaced by the lyrics about Birmingham andWatergate, while I stared blankly at the bubbles collecting inside my glass,remembering the conversation I’d had with Moe.
WasIjealous of Zach? I hadn’t really thought about it before, but now, I wondered.Our lives had always run pretty parallel to each other, for as long as I couldremember. Even when he was the first to venture out on his own, I hadn’t beenjealous or resentful. His place had given me somewhere to run to, when theapartment in Brooklyn I’d shared with the rest of my family became toostifling. But things were different now, and he wasn’t just a quick subway rideaway. He had his own house, in his own town, with his own job, and soon, he’dhave his own family, too. While I was still single, and still living with Pops.
Suddenly,it felt like life had been kicked into high gear and was rushed away witheveryone else, leaving me behind to collect the dust.
“Youokay, man?” I looked up to find Goose, eyeing me with concern.
“Yeah,I’m good,” I lied, while a sudden surge of despair settled deep in my gut.
Thenarrow-eyed look he gave said he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t press anyfurther. Instead, he nodded his chin to the back of the bar.
“Good,”he said. “‘Cause there’s a really hot lookin’ girl over there and she’s beenstaring at you for a solid five minutes.”
Thatwas enough to distract my worried mind, and I took a quick glance over myshoulder. Sure enough, there she was, a pretty brunette in the tightest whiteskirt I’d ever seen. Just as I caught her eye, she lifted her hand and wiggledher fingers in a little wave that could only be interpreted as flirty. She hadcast the bait into the water, and I was biting.
Grabbingmy glass, I excused myself from the bar and left Goose chuckling as I made myapproach.
