“Cycles”
By Max Davison
If it weren't for the fact that we aren't attracted to one another, Cassie Peterson and I would be married by now. Or at least in a monogamous committed relationship in which we refuse to get married as a way of defying the cultural norm (her idea, not mine).
I’m sure that there is some alternate universe where we’re living together. Some Earth-2 version of us where we're smiling, spending our Saturdays at Pottery Barn, laughing at the couples who are having legitimate arguments about place settings. We go mini-golfing not because of the kitsch factor but rather because we love the competition and neither of us can drive worth a damn.
She doesn't quite offer tactical condemnation, but it's clear that I'm going to have to move this conversation ahead faster than anticipated.
*****
Couple weeks later, and there's an 80's fun run/recovery party on the calendar. My friends let me know that I'm the designated driver for this occasion. I'm told that I desperately promised to DD a few weeks ago in exchange for a late night ride to Jack in the Box. Recognizing my drunk M.O., I take their word for it and grab my keys.
It's one of those parties where 90% of the banter consists of "Are you enjoying the party?" or some variation thereof. A Flock of Seagulls playing on the stereo. It's fairly innocuous, which is heavy praise for that band.
I'm the responsible one tonight, so I'm chugging down my Salt Lake City Iced Tea (cola and seltzer water with a lime wedge). As my boys go off to start Ronald Rage-in' (and as much as I'd like to attribute that to them, I came up with that pun), I stay behind and start people-watching (and wondering if leg warmers are ever going to make a legitimate comeback).
And there she is. Ms. Cassandra Peterson. About 50 IQ points too high to be the drunk girl at the party, but that's all that's stopping her at this point. She's in "it's the freakin' weekend" or "someone hurt me" mode, either resulting in complete impairment and a huge smile about those prospects.
She makes eye contact followed by a straight beeline for me without even blinking. She's sloshing her drink around, but with the cautious fluidity not to spill a single drop (which is helpful because I'm wearing my good shirt, the one I only wear when I know I'll be sober). She offers a huge bear hug, lingering a few seconds longer than she should.
"Todddddddd," she lyrically hums off-tune. I smile politely and start to plot a strategy of how to get some Vitamin Water into her and call her a cab (not sure where this idea came from, but it sounds good). “Todd, remember a couple weeks ago? You had this...” She giggles uncontrollably for the next ten seconds. “You had this idea. Mentioning about how we have never...”
"Never what, Cassie? I don't remember many details of that conversation," which isn't entirely a sarcastic lie.
"Hooked up before. You and me. And what seemed like a bad idea back then. Well..." The giggles return, right on schedule. She now starts plucking her bra straps like how Lindsay Buckingham would play the solo to Go Your Own Way.
"I'm sure it'll be fun. And then we see what happens later. Half of the fear is not knowing what happens next." I can tell that she's already anticipating my refusal, which is borrowed liberally from her own material.
"You're going to say that it's a bad idea, but can you really say that it's something you'd regret? I mean, mistake isn't even the right word. By the way, were you aware that Ricky was a mistake? Who knew?"
"Uh-huh," I maintain eye contact with her but my peripheral vision notices that we're starting to get some looks.
"The only important sample size that matters is N=1. Our experience is all that matters." As a testament to her intelligence, she's making some oddly strong points, even as she mistakes a scented candle for her red cup.
But then she does that one move that women of a certain BAC always find to be sultry. She spins her finger around and around and around in the air and then pokes me right in the chest. "Our experience."
Her finger stays pressed on my chest, really starting to poke me now. The look on her face morphs from euphoria to utter anger with the world.
"Just because my mother says that I need to find someone doesn't mean anything. Well excuse me, Mom. Just because you feel emotionally obligated to hate my father doesn't mean that you're in the sort of situation to be judging my own life decisions with your own very fucked up meter stick. Honestly, I think I'm doing just fine and the very fact that being single is considered an affront to maturity is nonsense. I just finished Infinite Jest. I'm doing fine in my path to adulthood..." This continues on for some time until she's physically and emotionally exhausted.
Now that the grievances are aired and her anger purged, Cassie has finally accepted that it's time to go home. I hail a cab at the curb. And as I am just about to get her into the door, she purges what's left in her stomach. She vomits up a night's worth of Bacardi and fear of inadequacy all over the cement, some residual splash ending up on my canvas shoes. I duck back inside and tell my friends I need to drive her home. "No dice," seems to be the consensus among the bro contingent. I promise another DD IOU. This suffices.
I finally get Cassie into bed (mission accomplished) with a trashcan by her side. Tuck her in, even manage to get her to wear her nightguard. She's a notorious tooth grinder and I can only imagine the damage a restless night would do. The plastic is already showing signs of heavy wear. After leaving two Motrin next to her bed, I jot down a "Call me when your headache lifts" message, tape it to her left hand, and head home.
Another party, another drunk person, another one-way proposition, another responsible sober buddy. Story of our great love affair. Then as the law of averages would have it, at the next party we’ll both be sober, awkwardly tiptoe around our respective, ill-advised come ons, and like any good married couple that isn't having sex, we pretend that this never happened and move on with our lives. Some day we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny.
And although the threat of "something more" is ever-present, neither of us needs to worry. We're at a comfortable point, Cassie and I. And allow me to reiterate, it's just not there.
From what I have gleaned from movies, pop music and my parents, maturity is about accepting the limits of what you can or can't do. Recognizing that some goals just aren't plausible, some dreams aren't going to be realized, and some people just aren't supposed to be together. Otherwise it would have happened by now. But blackout cycles aren't under our control. Yup. That alignment is left up to a higher power.
*****
Last week I check my inbox. Get an invite for a "Vegan Lesbian Surprise Party." Apart from the fact that the host doesn't have a clear understanding of noun-adjective agreement, I'm not exactly sure what this means. The party can entail one of three things:
Cassie texts me, equally confused about the theme. "See you tonight," she writes back, making a key point not to abbreviate any words. By my calendar, tonight is my turn to be a drunk idiot, so I put on my "going out gear" of a wrinkled white t-shirt under my second favorite sweater that already has a beer stain on the right sleeve.
The party, as it turns out, is being hosted by a lesbian whose girlfriend convinced her to go on a vegan diet. The first surprise was that we, too, would be eating a vegan meal in the hopes of hooking us on a 30-day vegan cleanse/experiment (and yes, they referred to it as a clensperiment). The other rule of the cleanse is that it will be a sober month, "Hoping to make us more mature in our alcohol intake."
As I keep waiting for the next "Surprise!" to come and tell me that this is all huge practical joke (preferably along with a full keg), Cassie walks over to me, holding something behind her back.
"I had no idea it was a sober party so I brought a case. And now I feel as though I'm breaking some AA rule...or the vegan equivalent." After auctioning off my secrecy for a few beers, we head out to the balcony where she stashed the remaining 10 bottles behind the succulent garden and start cracking them open.
She stops, halfway between embarrassed and offended. "Not my intention, Todd."
"Of course not. Didn't mean anything by it." Possibly as penance, possibly as a show of good faith, I knock back my Krsticbraü and take out another.
Feeling analytical, I start to do the math in my head (mental math is one of the few basic skills which has not left me as I grow up). 180lb male x three beers x 11.5% alcohol x 45 minutes x only consumed vegan appetizers tonight. Meanwhile a [REDACTED FOR POLITENESS] lb. female x one beer x 11.5% x 50 minutes, vis a vis, ergo...
We're both blowing around a .055. Both had the right amount to drink. Which is an odd thing to say. Either you're too sober or you're done-zo'd. Like how you always complain that a driver is either too cautious or too reckless. You never point out the guy on the freeway who's doing it right, keeping it just above the speed limit. No. You focus on the grandma in the fast lane or the teenager cutting in and out of traffic, driving with his knees while text messaging his drug dealer.
Nope, you very rarely recognize those moments where you've actually had enough and don't want to upset that balance.
She says she's tired. She rests her head on my shoulder. I say I don't mind. I let her.
And at the moment I'm sure that she's not going to be moving any time soon, a pounding on the glass door rustles us. One of our idiot friends (who, despite his momentary sobriety, has found a way to be even more of an asshole) yells, "Get a room!"
"Shut up, Ricky! Your mom told us gruesome details about your conception!" The unintended decibel level of my voice rouses the other reveling vegans. They open up the doors, gawking at the the two drunkies sitting on the two-seat couch, all the while allowing the party's miserable soundtrack to waft out onto the patio.
-30-
By Max Davison
If it weren't for the fact that we aren't attracted to one another, Cassie Peterson and I would be married by now. Or at least in a monogamous committed relationship in which we refuse to get married as a way of defying the cultural norm (her idea, not mine).
I’m sure that there is some alternate universe where we’re living together. Some Earth-2 version of us where we're smiling, spending our Saturdays at Pottery Barn, laughing at the couples who are having legitimate arguments about place settings. We go mini-golfing not because of the kitsch factor but rather because we love the competition and neither of us can drive worth a damn.
Yes, it would all be perfect except for that one snag: neither of us has any inclination.
She's my friend. Purely Platonic. And I will now pause while you have the following reaction: *cough* Yeah right *cough*. Glad that's out of your system. It's an argumentative friendship that occasionally borders on the homicidal (she has the audacity to defend the rat-infested ending of The Departed) and many people mistake that contentious banter for sexual compatibility.
Sure we hug, we throw our arms around one another in public, which might lead to some confusion. But we don't hold hands. That is a level of intimacy that doesn't make sense for people like us; a level of personal closeness reserved for relationships that won't last.
This isn't to say that the thought of her as something more hasn't passed through my head. It's there in the back, along with how to solve geometric proofs, obscure facts about insects, the vice presidents in order, and all the other crap I learned in high school. Apart from her habit/alleged fashion choice of wearing a skirt over her jeans, she's empirically a good looking woman. The sort of girl about whom your mother would say, "Todd, she is fantastic!" Which is the mom equivalent of "She has a great personality." Which she does have, as a matter of fact. Also, she consistently flosses, and I can't stress the importance of good oral hygiene enough.
Every so often (oftentimes alone, always while watching Netflix) I'll stop and think: "Life would be easier if I just ended up with Cassie." And when that's the most romantic thing you can say about a woman, odds are that you're looking in the wrong direction.
If we were both in a position to make a terrible life decision, it would have been made by now. I’m sure that at some point or another we would have gone to bed together, but thankfully we are on different blackout cycles and our respective impaired judgments are on opposite sides of the Venn diagram. Just how it works.
One week, I'll be at a house party. New job for one of my friends, so let's celebrate an advance in maturity with a proportionate response of sophomoric binge drinking and juvenile malarky and-- Oh, why the hell am I using big words like that? Let's freaking rage!
I'm there, a red cup in my hand, holding my signature drink of “Stop hogging the keg and just pour something into my cup,” and I’ve had, say...three...four...seven too many. My BAC approaching airline pilot, US Senator or NBA rookie range. I'm starting to really dig this retro 80's soundtrack pumping through the speakers. Not sure why A Flock of Seagulls gets a bad rap. Probably some undeserved stigma initiated by Bret Easton Ellis and perpetuated by proto-hipsters.
Feeling relaxed, I attempt to shock and awe the party with my patented trick of reciting the vice presidents in order, but the list inevitably devolves into the actors from Doctor Who. “Humphrey...Agnew...Ford...Pertwee...Tom Baker...Mondale...” At which point I struggle to remember whether Dukakis was ever a veep and what was the title of that one Olympia Dukakis movie that I really liked (later in the night to be forcefully remembered as Moonstruck) and, disappointed, I drop the whole pursuit.
It's 1:15 in the morning. I'm staggering around, operating under the influence of a cocktail of Red Bull, Vodka and self-loathing, and quickly approaching the point where I'm not tasting any of those ingredients except for the last one. And that's when I look across the apartment and the idea suddenly enters my head: Cassie’s not looking too bad tonight. Not bad at all.
Not sure where the impulse came from. Not sure why I’m only seeing it now. But Cassie’s looking good. I mean, look at her. She's funny. She's hilarious. Her face seems perfectly symmetrical tonight. She's wearing a sweater that she's worn a hundred times before that has that bizarre quality of looking both flattering yet flabby. Why haven't I ever seen this before? Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it's how she did her makeup tonight. Maybe it’s the alcohol that has finally given my conscious brain the vacation it needs to listen to reason.
But Cassie's looking good tonight. And know what? I’m going for it.
So I stumble up to her, with all the swagger of a drunk Peter O'Toole and none of the charm, and I throw my arm around her.
“Say, Cassandra?" She hates it when anyone calls her by her full name. And hatred is step one on the surefire path to her bed (source: Esquire, May 2013).
“Say Todd,” she mimics back, knowing exactly where this conversation is headed. All this has happened before, you see, on a previously installment of Todd's Blackout Theater. And all of it will happen again.
I take her willingness to talk as a good signal and decide to push. Wanting to playfully disarm her, I bring up the hilarious and insightful fact that the cicada’s reproductive cycle is 17 years. A prime number. Doesn’t synch up with that of its main predator. Because as well all know, entomology is the ultimate aphrodisiac (much like the sex pheromone of the tsetse fly).
I take her willingness to talk as a good signal and decide to push. Wanting to playfully disarm her, I bring up the hilarious and insightful fact that the cicada’s reproductive cycle is 17 years. A prime number. Doesn’t synch up with that of its main predator. Because as well all know, entomology is the ultimate aphrodisiac (much like the sex pheromone of the tsetse fly).
She doesn't quite offer tactical condemnation, but it's clear that I'm going to have to move this conversation ahead faster than anticipated.
“Cassie, know what we’ve never done? Not sure if you’ve ever thought about it, but why have we never...” I trail off, hoping that she'll finish my sentence for me.And she just stares at me. "Idear." Slurring is our previously determined safeword where even I have to accept that I am too drunk to function anymore. She gets some electrolyte water into me (as I discover in the morning, Vitamin Water does not help your hangover as much as you think) and she helps me into a cab.
"Never what?" she encourages, forcing me to utter said words.
“You know. Gone for it. Us. Why have we never hooked up?”
"Todd, it wouldn't work. And when you sober up, you'll know it."
"Plenty of great ideas and things were invented when people are drunk. Like Facebook. Or our buddy Ricky."
"Ricky was a mistake?"
"Big time. His parents were drunk at the graduation party and started blathering on about their broken marriage. Point is, just because I've been drinking doesn't mean it's a bad idear. Wait, I meant--"
“What to see my penis?” I say, unfortunately not entirely blacked out enough to the point of forgetting that sentence.The next morning I wake up, finding that I have composed seventeen “I’m sorry” text messages (the word "sorry" is spelled correctly in only three of which) and saved them in my drafts folder. Already waiting in my inbox is Cassie’s “Not a problem. Don’t do it again.”
“I’m fine, honey.”
*****
Couple weeks later, and there's an 80's fun run/recovery party on the calendar. My friends let me know that I'm the designated driver for this occasion. I'm told that I desperately promised to DD a few weeks ago in exchange for a late night ride to Jack in the Box. Recognizing my drunk M.O., I take their word for it and grab my keys.
It's one of those parties where 90% of the banter consists of "Are you enjoying the party?" or some variation thereof. A Flock of Seagulls playing on the stereo. It's fairly innocuous, which is heavy praise for that band.
I'm the responsible one tonight, so I'm chugging down my Salt Lake City Iced Tea (cola and seltzer water with a lime wedge). As my boys go off to start Ronald Rage-in' (and as much as I'd like to attribute that to them, I came up with that pun), I stay behind and start people-watching (and wondering if leg warmers are ever going to make a legitimate comeback).
And there she is. Ms. Cassandra Peterson. About 50 IQ points too high to be the drunk girl at the party, but that's all that's stopping her at this point. She's in "it's the freakin' weekend" or "someone hurt me" mode, either resulting in complete impairment and a huge smile about those prospects.
She makes eye contact followed by a straight beeline for me without even blinking. She's sloshing her drink around, but with the cautious fluidity not to spill a single drop (which is helpful because I'm wearing my good shirt, the one I only wear when I know I'll be sober). She offers a huge bear hug, lingering a few seconds longer than she should.
"Todddddddd," she lyrically hums off-tune. I smile politely and start to plot a strategy of how to get some Vitamin Water into her and call her a cab (not sure where this idea came from, but it sounds good). “Todd, remember a couple weeks ago? You had this...” She giggles uncontrollably for the next ten seconds. “You had this idea. Mentioning about how we have never...”
"Never what, Cassie? I don't remember many details of that conversation," which isn't entirely a sarcastic lie.
"Hooked up before. You and me. And what seemed like a bad idea back then. Well..." The giggles return, right on schedule. She now starts plucking her bra straps like how Lindsay Buckingham would play the solo to Go Your Own Way.
"I'm sure it'll be fun. And then we see what happens later. Half of the fear is not knowing what happens next." I can tell that she's already anticipating my refusal, which is borrowed liberally from her own material.
"You're going to say that it's a bad idea, but can you really say that it's something you'd regret? I mean, mistake isn't even the right word. By the way, were you aware that Ricky was a mistake? Who knew?"
"Uh-huh," I maintain eye contact with her but my peripheral vision notices that we're starting to get some looks.
"The only important sample size that matters is N=1. Our experience is all that matters." As a testament to her intelligence, she's making some oddly strong points, even as she mistakes a scented candle for her red cup.
But then she does that one move that women of a certain BAC always find to be sultry. She spins her finger around and around and around in the air and then pokes me right in the chest. "Our experience."
Her finger stays pressed on my chest, really starting to poke me now. The look on her face morphs from euphoria to utter anger with the world.
"Just because my mother says that I need to find someone doesn't mean anything. Well excuse me, Mom. Just because you feel emotionally obligated to hate my father doesn't mean that you're in the sort of situation to be judging my own life decisions with your own very fucked up meter stick. Honestly, I think I'm doing just fine and the very fact that being single is considered an affront to maturity is nonsense. I just finished Infinite Jest. I'm doing fine in my path to adulthood..." This continues on for some time until she's physically and emotionally exhausted.
Now that the grievances are aired and her anger purged, Cassie has finally accepted that it's time to go home. I hail a cab at the curb. And as I am just about to get her into the door, she purges what's left in her stomach. She vomits up a night's worth of Bacardi and fear of inadequacy all over the cement, some residual splash ending up on my canvas shoes. I duck back inside and tell my friends I need to drive her home. "No dice," seems to be the consensus among the bro contingent. I promise another DD IOU. This suffices.
I finally get Cassie into bed (mission accomplished) with a trashcan by her side. Tuck her in, even manage to get her to wear her nightguard. She's a notorious tooth grinder and I can only imagine the damage a restless night would do. The plastic is already showing signs of heavy wear. After leaving two Motrin next to her bed, I jot down a "Call me when your headache lifts" message, tape it to her left hand, and head home.
"You're the best," she semi-intelligently mumbles.*****
"I know."
“Can I see your penis?” she mumbles with slightly less cognizance.
“I’m fine, honey.”
Another party, another drunk person, another one-way proposition, another responsible sober buddy. Story of our great love affair. Then as the law of averages would have it, at the next party we’ll both be sober, awkwardly tiptoe around our respective, ill-advised come ons, and like any good married couple that isn't having sex, we pretend that this never happened and move on with our lives. Some day we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny.
And although the threat of "something more" is ever-present, neither of us needs to worry. We're at a comfortable point, Cassie and I. And allow me to reiterate, it's just not there.
From what I have gleaned from movies, pop music and my parents, maturity is about accepting the limits of what you can or can't do. Recognizing that some goals just aren't plausible, some dreams aren't going to be realized, and some people just aren't supposed to be together. Otherwise it would have happened by now. But blackout cycles aren't under our control. Yup. That alignment is left up to a higher power.
*****
Last week I check my inbox. Get an invite for a "Vegan Lesbian Surprise Party." Apart from the fact that the host doesn't have a clear understanding of noun-adjective agreement, I'm not exactly sure what this means. The party can entail one of three things:
- A) It's a surprise birthday party for a lesbian vegan
- B) A lesbian has decided to swear off meat and animal products.
- C) A vegan is coming out of the closet to her friends and family. Surprise!
Cassie texts me, equally confused about the theme. "See you tonight," she writes back, making a key point not to abbreviate any words. By my calendar, tonight is my turn to be a drunk idiot, so I put on my "going out gear" of a wrinkled white t-shirt under my second favorite sweater that already has a beer stain on the right sleeve.
The party, as it turns out, is being hosted by a lesbian whose girlfriend convinced her to go on a vegan diet. The first surprise was that we, too, would be eating a vegan meal in the hopes of hooking us on a 30-day vegan cleanse/experiment (and yes, they referred to it as a clensperiment). The other rule of the cleanse is that it will be a sober month, "Hoping to make us more mature in our alcohol intake."
As I keep waiting for the next "Surprise!" to come and tell me that this is all huge practical joke (preferably along with a full keg), Cassie walks over to me, holding something behind her back.
"Not sure about you, but I was expecting a vegan coming out to her family."Before I can mention the horrors of this PETA-friendly, non-voluntary sobriety, Cassie directs my attention to her right hand. She's discreetly cradling two beers (with multiple umlauts in the name).
"Knowing her parents, the vegan angle would probably disappoint them more."
"I had no idea it was a sober party so I brought a case. And now I feel as though I'm breaking some AA rule...or the vegan equivalent." After auctioning off my secrecy for a few beers, we head out to the balcony where she stashed the remaining 10 bottles behind the succulent garden and start cracking them open.
"Other issue was that I didn't know if beer was vegan," she says.As the vegan festival continues on inside, it doesn't seem as though our presence is missed. I take a strong swig, wince and get a look at the label. "What is this, 11.5%? Are you trying to lower my inhibitions?"
"Yeast is technically alive, although it might die out during the fermentation process."
"I don't think that being alive is the criteria for veganism. Veganity. Whatever they call it."
"Well yeast doesn't a face. I think."
"Todd, you can tell me the reproductive habits of the common cicada and yet the facial structure of bacteria eludes you."
"It's a gift."
"I've always liked that sweater on you," she adds. "Glad you wore it tonight."
She stops, halfway between embarrassed and offended. "Not my intention, Todd."
"Of course not. Didn't mean anything by it." Possibly as penance, possibly as a show of good faith, I knock back my Krsticbraü and take out another.
"Unfortunately I remember too much about the last party," she admits, something that stone cold sober Cassie would never do. "I was in a bad place and--"She admits that she had a blow up with her mother earlier that night, which had caused her to nearly bite all the way through her nightguard. Taking her mind off of the subject of mother-induced melancholy, we attempt to run through the vice presidents, which proves staggeringly difficult when not plastered. By the time we finally end up at Joe Biden, we switch over to a new list, but neither of us can remember the actor who played the Third Doctor so that game of Scattergories comes to a quick end.
"Don't have to apologize."
"No, I do. I keep putting you in an uncomfortable position."
"Nothing that I haven't done to you before."
Feeling analytical, I start to do the math in my head (mental math is one of the few basic skills which has not left me as I grow up). 180lb male x three beers x 11.5% alcohol x 45 minutes x only consumed vegan appetizers tonight. Meanwhile a [REDACTED FOR POLITENESS] lb. female x one beer x 11.5% x 50 minutes, vis a vis, ergo...
We're both blowing around a .055. Both had the right amount to drink. Which is an odd thing to say. Either you're too sober or you're done-zo'd. Like how you always complain that a driver is either too cautious or too reckless. You never point out the guy on the freeway who's doing it right, keeping it just above the speed limit. No. You focus on the grandma in the fast lane or the teenager cutting in and out of traffic, driving with his knees while text messaging his drug dealer.
Nope, you very rarely recognize those moments where you've actually had enough and don't want to upset that balance.
She says she's tired. She rests her head on my shoulder. I say I don't mind. I let her.
And at the moment I'm sure that she's not going to be moving any time soon, a pounding on the glass door rustles us. One of our idiot friends (who, despite his momentary sobriety, has found a way to be even more of an asshole) yells, "Get a room!"
"Shut up, Ricky! Your mom told us gruesome details about your conception!" The unintended decibel level of my voice rouses the other reveling vegans. They open up the doors, gawking at the the two drunkies sitting on the two-seat couch, all the while allowing the party's miserable soundtrack to waft out onto the patio.
"What the hell is that?" she quietly asks.We hold hands, sitting on the couch like an old married couple. All the while I'm wondering when the next party is going to be, and promising myself that I'll have the same amount to drink that night.
"A Flock of Seagulls."
"Truly terrible, isn't it?"
"It sure is."
-30-
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