Dumbo

It was her birthday (one of the late-twenties ones). At that point, I was drinking Wild Turkey 101, Basil Hayden’s, Makers Mark, Buffalo Trace, Woodford Reserve, and anything else I wanted. I’ve learned the difference between whiskey and bourbon more than once, but it’s never stuck; It all smells like booze to me. Back then, nights started with drinking and driving. What a time! I drove us into the city, my Pathfinder’s stereo blared rap music. If I had asked her what she wanted to listen to, she would have answered, “Lana Del Rey.” The November day was already too dreary for that, so I didn’t ask. 

We were wearing thigh-length coats. Hers was blush; mine was midnight blue. She was pretty with full lips, large eyes, and shoulder-length hair that everyone complimented. I liked her legs and her full breasts, I liked how she was down to sleep naked; she was always warm to the touch. I liked that she was down to drink. We lived together for two years, so she’d seen enough of my ups and downs to decide on our future together. I’d seen enough of hers too.

Outer Sunset was cold and blanketed in a wet fog that wasn’t Birthday-like and caused her to remark that she was cold despite her coat. The comment happened as soon as we exited the car, and I slammed my door shut, upset with her for acknowledging the poor weather. I may have said something like, “I shouldn’t have driven all the way out here. What a waste.” And, if I didn’t say it aloud, my attitude indeed conveyed as much. 

The grey weather defined my mood and changed my drinking trajectory from amusement to pity and self-loathing. It wasn’t all me, though; she had something going on in her head that made her appear cartoonishly withdrawn. I found it exhausting to be in a relationship in the bad times. I wanted to right the wrong but didn’t know how; we needed a flame, and I often was a wet match. The sound of our feet pounding the pavement helped mask the uncomfortable energy between us. Tiny droplets of mist perched on my coat’s sleeve like thoughts I was yet to share. 

We reached for each other’s hands as we crossed the street. I looked up to check for oncoming cars and glimpsed at her face. There was an ocean of regret in her eyes. 

Soon we were sitting across from each other at a dive bar - not one of those fashionable ones your co-workers have talked about, but one where deprived drunks go to spend their last dollar. In a teasing whisper, I told her, “Smoking indoors has been banned since 1995.” Then I nodded my head toward this guy who was smoking at the bar, “He doesn’t give a shit.” The guy was balding and also somehow had a ponytail down his back. He had a Marlboro in his mouth, and I noticed an ant pile of ash by the stool legs beneath him.

There was an hour to kill before our reservation. Time passed, and the cigarette smoke faded. We drank more because it was something to do. We talked but couldn’t connect. Our words poked at each other, and our irritation with the other simmered like oil on a skillet. Relief only came when she picked up her phone to text back the friends wishing her Happy Birthday. There's a reason why the idiom, ‘there’s an elephant in the room’ exists. A giant elephant lingered between us on the splintery wooden table, and I had to maneuver around its trunk every time I reached for my drink. Yet, for how much I could sense a rift, I couldn’t pinpoint what the damn elephant really was. 

I left to take a leak at some point. When I looked at myself in the restroom mirror, I wondered if I was the elephant. On the way back to the table, I ordered another round. 

It’s hard to break up with someone who you live with; I know, I’ve done it twice. I treated my relationships with those women like I did houseplants that I loved and then lost interest in. Her phone kept going off. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. 

Annoyed by the lack of attention I was getting, I picked apart her every movement, like how she clutched her phone near her chest and craned her neck so that the back of her head looked like a high dive to the screen. 

It was when I finished my third whiskey (I’d switched to well by then) that I began fixating on my unpleasant life. It was my girl’s birthday, and she didn’t even want to have fun. She’d rather be on her phone than be present with me. It was such a cliche, but I should have seen it coming. She had a blush coat, for christ's sake! 

Without her paying attention to me, it felt pointless that I was out at all. I questioned if this was what life was supposed to feel like. When I got up from the table, I stumbled, but that was par for the course.

Thanh Long’s is a Vietnamese restaurant in Outer Sunset that’s famous for its King Crab and Garlic noodles (If you’re drinking and ordering for two, plan to have three-hundred dollars to burn). The waiter sat us at a booth a few tables away from the kitchen, the proximity bothered me, but it was still better than a dreadful middle table. I slithered into one side, and she scooted into the other. We placed our coats by our sides and ordered a bottle of wine. She only knew that she liked Reds. I didn’t like wine, but it felt right to sacrifice my liquid preferences in light of her Birthday dinner. 

We were acting nicer to each other because we weren’t in the dive bar anymore, and when we finally settled in and looked at the other, I was in drunken awe of the bronze goddess across from me. Her low cut dress was patterned with rhinestones that shimmered and danced like stars reflecting off a moonlit lake. 

I said, “You look amazing.” 

She smiled. We bought in.

At that moment, we got exactly what we wanted. We were celebrating. We were dressed up. We were out drinking wine and shoving crab meat into our mouths with buttery fingers. In between the booze and the crab, we piled in garlic noodles. It was impossible to decide which part of the trifecta was our favorite; they were all the best we’d ever had. Surprisingly, being close to the kitchen became advantageous. The booth made me feel protected from, and yet a part of the action, and the people around us talking, and the ringing bell on the door were all just background to our intoxicated words. 

When the plates were bare, and crab shells took over the table, we ordered dessert. Without food in front of us, our chatter dissipated. I looked at her. I could have mentioned the anticipation I felt for the chocolate plate or the Lagunitas beer I’d just ordered, but I didn’t.

We should have been delighted because we got everything we wanted from the night and still had dessert to go, yet all that she conveyed was a deep yearning for something missing. The buttery film on my hands was a foolish reminder of how dumb it was ever to be happy. The room quickly became stuffy and reeked of garlic, and worst of all was the noise from the kitchen. It was too damn loud.

Soon I found out what the elephant in the room was. I pleaded with her multiple times, “Just tell me.” And so she finally gave me what I asked for and said she was upset because she thought she’d be married by now. It ruined desert, and it struck me as the thing that had muddied up the day from the start. She wanted a marriage proposal, but I couldn’t give it to her. I said the most neutral thing that I could think of, “I love you.” 

She looked at me with her lips parted like she was going to express everything inside of her, then offered a muted response, “Love you.” 

We picked at the assortment of fudge, ganache, and tart with misery as we navigated the long silence that followed. There was a timer on our relationship and the only thing that could add minutes was a ring on her finger. 

We left the restaurant in a worse state than we’d entered. At least when we’d arrived for our reservation, the cat was still in the bag. We didn’t have this ultimate decision over our heads, ruining the night. I grew frustrated by the mood, and I was drunk. 

I rehashed a point I’d brought up before, “Why can’t love be enough? Why’s a ring even matter?” 

When I saw that she was getting upset, I hurled another zinger, “Sorry a three-hundred dollar meal isn’t enough.” 

She started sobbing and continued to walk with her arms crossed on her chest. I wanted her to admit I was right, but all she did was cry. As we passed a lamppost, I caught sight of a fresh stain on her coat and quickly called it out. “Looks like you got butter on your coat.” She looked down at the stain. Her face furled like she was going to break down. I commented, “Bet it’s ruined.” 

I drove home shitfaced and angry. I played the music louder than I ever do, louder than she would ever let me, and louder than would ever be comfortable for anyone in the car. When lights turned green, I accelerated to the speed limit as fast as I could and when we got on the freeway, I carved in and out of traffic without a turn signal or a thought of anyone else on the road. Looking back, what I was most angry about was the fact that I didn’t know what it would take for me to feel ready to get married. It had nothing to do with her. 

I loved her. 

I was furious I didn’t understand myself.

Especially when drinking, the freeway’s easier to navigate than the streets. The streets don’t allow cruise control; they require full motor skill capabilities and remind you of this. 

We were pulling up to a stoplight that was about six blocks from our apartment. I was fiddling with a bottle of beer that I’d opened in the car. I saw the red light in front of me and pressed the brake, but it wasn’t hard enough. I looked down for a moment, and then I hit a BMW.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I was panicking. 

She wasn’t freaking out yet. 

I thought she was in shock. 

I opened the door to get out of the car. The plan was to play it cool and tell the BMW guy that it was an accident. I thought I could exchange driver’s licenses and insurance and be done with it. I was wrong. I exited the car stumbling, undeniably intoxicated, and he saw the whole thing. His hazards illuminated me, and BMW accused me, “You’re drunk!” 

I think I told him that it was an accident and that I was sorry. 

He for sure said, “I’m calling the cops.” 

He put his phone to his ear and turned to the inside of his car to get something. I abandoned him to take my first look at the damage and saw that it was only a fender bender, a softball-sized dent. 

I walked back to my car, where she was waiting for me in the passenger seat. 

“What’s he doing?” She asked. 

I told her he was calling the cops, then I said,“If I stay here, I’m getting a DUI.”

She looked at me with conviction.

We understood that I was asking for permission. It was the most vulnerable I’ve ever been. We both saw who I really was.

She said, “Let’s get outta here.” 

Next, I was behind the wheel, feeling the wet of my beer-soaked pants against my inner thigh. As I pulled away from the accident, BMW shouted, “I’ve got your license plate, dumbass!” 

I ran a red light or two to get home. 

Even once we were safe in the apartment, I had the sensation of being chased. We repeatedly talked about what happened and what was going to happen if I got caught. We hid our stained clothes in a dry clean only bag like they were evidence. We were terrified. I googled hit and run and got paranoid that the cops would somehow use it against me. I worried they would smash down the door in the middle of the night and drag me away, and I knew that if it happened, I would deserve it. 

The cops didn’t come. The next few days, we lived in a choking fog of anxiety. Thoughts of being hunted plagued me during my waking hours. There was a new elephant in the room.

 As the first week after the accident came to an end with no signs of repercussion, we quietly started talking about how it was the best decision I could have made. I felt guilty not only for my crime but for agreeing with this sentiment. 

I laid in bed, not being able to sleep. I dissected the accident like I’d done a thousand times over the last week, but this time I remembered what the old elephant in the room was. I reassessed how I felt about marriage now that I’d lived through this with her. She was a woman who put my best interests above anything else and had proved it. I felt an immense amount of love come over me, and I knew then that no matter what happened, I was going to marry her.