Cheers fo Sophie

Cheer for Sophie’s Choice by  Gary Baxter

 Casual relationships: no matter how fickle or fiery they start, they ultimately all do one thing. They end.  Sure, some participants are left with heartaches to heal, (max out Amex's, unwanted pregnancies, and joint Equinox lifetime gym memberships for others) but for the masses its fragmented memories. It’s old text messages with purple hearts and smiley emojis. Its numbers to iPhone 5's that are no longer working or available for your 1am call for noisy debauchery.  But at 1:30 am last Friday night I got the call. You know the one that starts with a forced “how’s things”, short silence then “we need to talk in person”.  From there it could only be three things coming from a “F buddy'': “I’m pregnant”,  '' I brought you a Brindle colored Bully terrier, or we're thru” which made more plausible sense than door number one or two.

So, I’m at “Fish and Stars” bar and seafood waiting for our guest of honor Sophie, who always promises to sponsor the first round at happy hour but never shows up on time. Waiters have their hands full this evening since it’s the local 53 teachers’ union night and the background noise is way in front. I consciously feel like I’m the only khaki wearing oddball riding the barstool solo. I dipped my head below sea level to discreetly watch people from a sober standpoint, while mulling over the facto that our 2 decade marathon of drunken parties which ended up in Sophie’s floral full cut bloomers is finally finito. My Mild Buffalo wings order comes out steaming from the kitchen too hot to avoid a  tongue in flames so I wait, sigh and flash back to me and Sophie’s undergrad humble cranberry and vodka days at city college. Back then I was a skinny light skin faux dread studying architecture. Sophie was a 128-pound brown skin Kool aid dyed red head leaning toward Law. It was sophomore year when we met at a student union NSBE (National Society of Black Engineers) rally. She thought I was “quirky handsome”, so we went back to her dorm room and had a 2-hour weed induced philosophical debate on whether backward baseball caps were a social construct. From then on, we became inseparable new age hippies, wasting most of our undergrad daylight getting high in Washington Square Park.  Fish male Patrons seem to be in a Neanderthal uproar, howling at the full moon letting, the devil down in them drunkard sips taint their heart and better judgment, twisting wedding rings deep into back pockets that snap and flap down, as if it mattered. I extend my hand upright to say cheers at the wolves who give me the thumbs up, as if this is life at its best across the bar but what the hell did I have to be chipper about? 

“The Breakup” conversation no matter how necessary, shallow, open, or mutual it is never gives you a crypto billion feeling. It's a brick to the face, a slicing of the heart, an awkward uncomfortable paradox like; needing to use the bathroom, mounting the porcelain bowl, only to look over to find that the toilet paper roll is now just a brown empty roll, thus a very shitty experience.  I know, I know this relationship of libations and noncommittal degradation had to end prematurely someday or somehow responsibly grow up into something we’d both hate like 2nd hand linoleum and subletting a studio in “Queensbridge projects” but why now?? Twelve years, twelve years, long before bottle service: we lasted star gazing, bar hopping, thru; 2 Bushes, Michael Alig parties, Crab fest in Baltimore, timeshare presentations in VA, Myspace, house music on vinyl, 8 jobs, 2 root canals, 3 yeast infections later and still no further than intimate dinner dates with benefits. So, I guess at 44 yrs young with no ring nor fertile eggs in her time sensitive Easter basket, Sophie came to terms to now walk sternly away. On the other hand, maybe we’d be better off sober and celibate. She could; put down, my dick, the brown liquor bottle, convert back to Islam and finally get therapy for her distant disposition and chain smoking. On the other hand, I could muster up the courage to flatten my libido and dough boy stomach, re-pick up the NYU app for grad school and join some metaverse black conservative bowling league.

Anyway, an hour passes, so does happy hour but still no Sophie.  My anxiety deflates, realizing she’s most likely ghosted me and is a no show for at least a teary breakup hugathon. Looking back, I guess we stayed for safety and comfort zones which stagnated growth and everything else in our life for that matter.  It was as if we were in this comfy cocoon in marijuana clouds while the late hairy 90’s and 9 to 5s we could call careers passed us by. She left to live. You gotta respect that. Realizing that I'll be solo for the duration of the night, I order an Irish beer which the waiter praises pack’s a mean punch.  A group of 2nd grade teachers are gyrating off swivel chairs, loosely unbuttoning their top buttons for cleavage’s sake.  I imagine some of the female teacher’s as well momentarily disappearing into the bathroom for cat glove removal (slipping panties off into their purses) as if it was going to be one of those nights, they’d have an alibi ready for. With no safety net, 7 condoms and maximus confidence I take a seat beside the voluptuous Miss Dunkin, a drunken mathematics teacher who’s been eyeing me. We begin a light convo, closing the distance between our bar stools as I order a pitcher of Guinness for self and a shot of jack for Miss Possibility. Within the sweaty walls of shrimp, beer, hookah, and secrets I become a lost face within the crowd of strangers, and you know what I was ok with being just that. Cheers!!!