Playgrounds & Playmates

Why are we meeting at a bar in a strip mall? I think to myself as I pull into one of the last parking spots of the unimpressive, suburban sports bar. I nervously fluff my curly hair in the rearview mirror, and triple check there’s no lipstick on my teeth a final, final time. I felt too nervous to eat much today and my anxiety does high-rise belly flops into my empty pit of stomach bile as I dig through my wallet and hand my ID over to the large bouncer at the front door. That bouncer looks familiar. Did we go to high school together? God, I hope we don’t see old high school people here tonight. He waves me on, not seeming to recognize me back, even with my ID in hand, and I feel the tension in my shoulders drop a millimeter. I scan the large crowded bar looking for her. It’s smokey and loud as balding quarterbacks and decaying prom queens clatter pool balls and yell out for pitcher refills. The thin carpeted floor feels sticky under my Docs, and I feel my body begging to just get back in my car and leave. But then, I see her. Sitting by herself at the end of the bar. I quietly sneak up behind her, put my hand on the small of her back, and lean in close to whisper in her ear. 

“Have we met before?” I say in my best creepy-bar-guy impression. Ashley flinches and turns around to swat my arm. 

“Bitch, you scared me!” she laughs as she bounds off her bar stool to give me her famous bear hug. It doesn’t matter that it's been four years since we’ve seen each other - we’ve been best friends since kindergarten, and will always be able to spot each other in crowded bars, and pick up the banter right where we left it off. 

Ashley orders her second double vodka soda as I order my first. I should have had a drink at home before I came. It’s hard to reflect back on my life growing up with Ash and not feel so much heaviness and grief. There were so many times in life we were all we had to cling onto. As kids of alcoholics and workaholics ,just trying to survive, we often felt abandoned by those who were supposed to take care of us and teach us, so we did our very best to figure it out by ourselves, side by side.

But, we got to experience so many beautiful moments too, like that time we ran around town on the last day of summer before ninth grade and it started to downpour out of nowhere, but the sun stayed shining and we stayed laughing the entire time. Or, how we’d pass notes to each other in the hallway in middle school. But not just any stupid little notes, those notes were perfectly crafted. You could piece them together across the years like a complicated, detailed soap opera script, or collage the various gel pen colors and doodles together to create giant colorful murals. They are historical manuscripts perfectly capturing the lives, cares, and worries of two teenage girls' perfect friendship in the early 2000s. 

Now each two doubles in, we covered the basics of her new husband and my new job, and all the things we secretly hated about them both. While Ashley continues to ramble on about dirty socks, my attention is captured by something in the corner of my eye. Or rather someone. Ok, now that guy looks really, really familiar. Have we met before? Too intrigued by this Stranger, I’m unable to even pretend I’m listening to Ashley anymore. The Stranger and I lock eyes, and I watch him ask himself the same question about me. 

“Ashley,” I interrupt, “look at the guy over there. With the red trucker hat and jacked up teeth. Does he look familiar to you? Do we know him?” Growing up, Ash knew every kid in our school, and all the dirt there was to know about them. And, despite our wild teenage years, the drugs never seemed to do permanent damage to her ability to remember unimportant, social circle details from high school. 

“Oh my God, it’s Brayden!” Ashley says before tossing back the last of her drink. “We should go say hi! He used to always have weed on him. Just by looking at him now, I’m going to bet that’s still true.” Fuck, I don’t even remember the last time I smoked. It’s been a minute. 

“Oh, hell yeah. Let’s go say hi,” I say trying to hide the hesitation in my voice. 

Brayden was only four years our senior, but looking at him now you might have guessed closer to ten. Looks like the 'always has weed' personality trait doesn’t age well past your teenage years. His teeth were tricolored and crooked, and despite wearing a hat, you could still see strands of greasy unwashed hair poking out from his head. He had always been a skinny kid, but now he looked like a skinny man, with a plume of stale cigarette smoke always hovering around him. This better be really good weed, Ashley. I reluctantly slid into the booth, wedged between them both. 

We order more drinks, and then a couple more, in hopes to trick ourselves into thinking we’re having a good time hanging out with someone we didn’t want to, in hopes of free drugs. The drunker we get, the louder we laugh our sour breath collectively into the air. The room starts to blur, time starts to slow, and my body starts to relax. The alcohol is making me feel good, but I want to feel even better. I glance at Ashley and raise a single eyebrow - no more communication is needed. She leans over Brayden, draws his face close to hers, and whispers in his ear. A slow grin creeps onto his face, giving a sobering reminder of his decaying teeth. He whispers something back, and she giggles as he slips something into the hip pocket of her jeans. She gives me a wink and gestures her head toward the bathroom with big, eager eyes.

“Ash, I haven’t done coke since I got out of rehab,” I slur over the ‘tap, tap, tap’ of her credit card on the bathroom sink. 

“Oh my gosh, you’ll be fine. Plus, we drank a lot, so if anything it will sober us up a bit,” she says as she excitedly ties her long hair back into a ponytail. A false sense of safety washes over me, as I remember a past life I was once confused about liking. You know it’s going to feel good. And you know Brayden has a lot more where that came from. I put the rolled up dollar bill between my nostril and the bathroom sink of this unimpressive, suburban sports bar in a strip mall, and breathe in free cocaine from a creepy guy. My thumb instinctively plugs my nose as I throw my head back, wanting to keep every last fleck inside of me. I give one more big inhale and shiver as I taste the familiar gasoline in the back of my throat. I meet my own eyes in the dirty bathroom mirror as my pupils explode. Have we met before?