Whiskey Sundae

Getting fired was the last thing I’d expected to come out of a casual Wednesday. The sun was shining when I left the house this morning to bring the kids to school, though, looking back, I recall the large storm clouds that suddenly concealed the bright blue of the sky in a blanket of ominous gray as I made my way into the office. As any person would, I accepted the abrupt weather change as an oddity rather than an omen. Perhaps I would’ve been a bit more prepared for the catastrophe that awaited me if I had taken the coming storm as a warning.

Fittingly enough, it was raining now, as I marched along the soaked pavement towards an unknown destination. I aligned my footsteps with my flustered heartbeat and tried not to think. But of course, trying not to think about something never does anyone any good, so I was left helplessly replaying the day’s events in my head as I wandered aimlessly through the city.

My boss called me into her office, her enthusiastic smile giving no indication of the terrible news she was moments from delivering. If anything, I thought I had been called in for a raise, or a congratulations of some sort.

She sat behind her desk and gestured to the chair in front of her. She was still grinning while I settled, until she rested her head on her interlaced fingers and became serious. The mood in the room changed as instantaneously as the color of the sky had. I bit my lip and tightened my grip on the armrests. My knuckles turned as white as her manicured fingernails while the silence stretched on for just long enough to make the questions start swimming through my head. Clearly, I was not being congratulated.

She gave it to me straight. I was a wonderful employee who had devoted many years to the company (almost ten, though neither of us mentioned it), but it was time to let me go. I detected no qualifiable explanation through her flurry of apologies and piteous compliments, and assumed that the real reason for the decision was one that would pain me to hear, or that would pain her to tell me. I tuned her out. I was fired. What was I supposed to do now? I was never in love with my work, but it was simple, I was good at it, and it paid the bills. How long would it take me to find another job that checked off the same boxes? How would I provide for my family until then?

I spent the day collecting my things, and cleaning out my cubicle until it was the bare, boring beige it had been when I first claimed it. My hands were shaking as I boxed up family photographs, pictures my kids drew for me, potted succulents, emergency protein bars, books, thank you cards, and post-its with messy thoughts I jotted down during staff meetings. I wondered why I ever bothered to personalize my space to such an extent, only to be kicked out a few years after I made myself comfortable. It was shocking how quickly my whole world turned upside down.

I picked up my pace and walked with purpose, now knowing exactly where I was going. Not home, to my wife and kids patiently waiting to hear about my day. I couldn’t tell them- not until I built up the courage. Though there were much better places than the one I had in mind to accomplish this mission, I was feeling irrational and impulsive. These were unfamiliar emotions, and against my better judgment I decided to act on them. I stopped in front of the bar.

The bell that tinkled merrily above my head as I opened the door pierced through quiet conversations. I looked around. The place was mostly empty- a few couples sat together at tables tucked away in the corners, conversing softly over glasses of champagne. Some sat at barstools, hunched over shot glasses, their soaking coats and hair making them look as lost and disheveled as I must have. Upon the sight of them, I smoothed back my hair and shook out my jacket before taking the stool closest to the door. I mimicked their poses, hunching over the table and letting myself wallow in my misery.

“What can I get for ya, hun?” I looked up to see a rosy-cheeked bartender, whose wispy brown hair was pulled into a bun on the crown of her head. Her face was worn and tired, but she looked kind. She reminded me a lot of my own mother- her eyes held the resemblance. They were a deep chocolate brown that would’ve made me smile had my worries not been intent on twisting my face into an anguished frown.

“Whiskey,” I mumbled, wanting something strong. I wasn’t a drinker, not usually. But I was terribly desperate for an escape from reality.

She frowned, her eyes flickering with disapproval. She contemplated my request, examining my sorry state. “One moment,” she decided, spinning on her heel and disappearing around the corner.

I waited for what felt like a very long time. I hoped she was foraging through the alcohol supply, in search of the strongest whiskey she could find. I stayed quiet, listening for the sounds of ice clinking against glass, but the bar was silent aside from the couples talking in their corners. Just as I was beginning to get impatient, the woman danced back around the corner, her cheeks flushing excitedly, carrying something that definitely wasn’t whiskey.

She set her creation in front of me. I stared at it. The frosty bowl she served it in contained a mountain of ice cream so tall that I had to straighten my defeated posture in order to see the woman’s face over the top of it. I gave her a look of bewilderment. It was an ice cream sundae. It was enormous. It was the kind of dessert that would make my teeth feel like they were rotting away while I consumed it. It was not what I wanted.

She smiled, her white teeth standing out against the rosy red that dominated her complexion. She appeared to be very proud of herself. Perhaps I too would’ve been impressed with her monster of a sundae, had I not been in a bar, waiting impatiently for a strong glass of something to make me forget my terrible day.

“This isn’t what I-” I started, but trailed off as she put her hands on her hips and gave me a glare.

“Trust me, hun- this is what you need,” she said. She flashed another prideful smile before waltzing back around the corner and out of sight.

I looked around. Was this a joke? A part of me expected her to be back in a moment with my drink in her hand. But silent moments stretched on, and the sundae was still sitting in front of me, glossy, sugary drips starting to trail down the sides.

I examined the elaborate work of art. There were several scoops of chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla ice cream, showered with rainbow sprinkles and oozing with hot fudge. Chunks of cookie and slices of fresh fruit were placed strategically so as to make every bite a unique one. Dollops of whipped cream with cherries in their centers filled any potential crevices. A large spoon was nestled in between two scoops of vanilla, and I eyed it warily.

I watched the sundae continue to melt, thinking about how strange it was that I should ask for an adult drink and be served a child’s dessert. Prompted by the large drips of ice cream cascading down the sides of the bowl, a glob of hot fudge tumbled from the sugary tower and began falling fast towards the table. I caught it instinctively, its warmth making my finger tingle. With no napkin to dispose of the mess, I heaved a heavy sigh and placed the chocolate in my mouth.

The heat from the fudge quickly spread to my face, which was still damp and cold from the rain. It was a strangely pleasant feeling, though I was sure I would still prefer a stiff drink. I strained my neck, trying to glance around the corner to see if the bartender would be coming back. I sank back into my seat, defeated. I supposed I had nothing better to do. I hesitantly reached for the spoon, which was cool and smooth in my palm. I searched with the tip of the utensil, looking for the most convenient place to excavate.

I started with a small scoop of chocolate ice cream, taking a cautious bite. It was creamy and sweet, complimenting perfectly with the hot fudge that still lingered on my tastebuds. I grabbed a spoonful of whipped cream next, adding more layers to the sugary painting inside of my mouth. I found myself closing my eyes, enjoying the variety of flavors and textures that the sundae left on my tongue. I was suddenly searching through my memories, trying to recall the last time I’d indulged in such a treat.

I was eating more urgently now, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into my mouth. With each mouthful came a new memory that the tastes reminded me of. A bite of chocolate soft serve I stole from my daughter on a summer’s day at the park. A strawberry milkshake I split with my wife back when we’d first started dating. A vanilla cone I was treated to on a day at the beach when I was a young boy.

As the tower of ice cream continued to shrink, I realized I was crying. There was happiness, sadness, and nostalgia all mixed together in the complicated concoction of my tears. I laughed through my choked sobs, at how ridiculous I must’ve looked, at how remarkable it was that the things that happened to me could matter so much and yet so little. I was the man who was fired from his job today, but I was also the boy who absolutely adored the taste of ice cream. I was both a father and a son. I was everything and nothing all at once.

Once I started laughing, I couldn’t stop. It was terribly amusing to think that I had been grumbling about losing my job five minutes ago, and was now chuckling over an enormous bowl of ice cream. I was shocked by how quickly my emotions were able to change, and the insignificance of the events that could change them. I never would have guessed that ice cream could be so eye-opening. I went into the bar hoping for a drink that would allow me to forget, and I would leave grateful for the sundae that allowed me to remember.