Here’s to You, Here’s to Me

Here’s to You, Here’s to Me

“Are you coming tonight?”

I instantly regret answering my phone. I should have declined the call, forwarded it to voicemail. I should have turned my phone off or left it on silent in another room. I should have thrown it with all of my might into the Mississippi River to be swallowed whole by a bucketmouth bass.

Ok fine, this isn’t my phone's fault. It is better to have some warning. If I hadn’t answered, she would have shown up unannounced anyway, and the only thing that gives me more anxiety than an unexpected phone call is an unexpected banging on my door. At least now I have a chance to worm my way out of whatever shenanigans my best friend has cooked up for us this evening. I think I remember her mentioning something about a basketball game. Or was it soccer?

“Um, I’m actually kind of busy right now,” I reply.

I glance at my laptop, primed to stream the entire Twilight saga. A smorgasbord of chips and candies are scattered across my bed, taunting my tastebuds. A freshly uncorked bottle of sauvignon blanc sweats on my Star Trek coaster. A string of fairy lights lining the edges of my room is the only light source to save my eyes from straining while I stare at my screen for the next 607 minutes.

“Busy, huh? What are you working on?” my best friend probes.

“Oh you know, just editing some spreadsheets for work. Kind of a rush job so I’ll be working on them late,” I lie.

“It’s Friday, your boss doesn’t check her emails after 3pm, you’ve already logged 40 hours for the week, and you don’t get paid overtime.” Damn, she’s a good listener. 

“Alright, you got me. I was about to binge Twilight,” I confess with a sigh..

BANG BANG BANG.

I fall out of my bed with a yelp and drag my cocoon of blankets and snacks down with me. “Holy shit! There’s someone banging on my door! Call 911! But don’t hang up! Oh my god where is my-”

“It’s me, dummy. Let me in.”

I untangle myself from my bedding and storm to the door. My fingers fumble with three different locks until the door is finally free to fling open. My best friend breezes into my living room, her swishy high pony tail swatting me in the face as she passes me. She’s wearing an unbuttoned Cardinals jersey over a crop top, Daisy Duke’s, and knee high socks. “Why would you do that? You know I hate unsolicited knocks.”

“Why didn’t you invite me to veg out with you? You know I love a good love triangle,” she retorts.

“Fine. I deserved that. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you. I thought you had plans.”

“We have plans. I will forgive you if you put this on.” She thrusts a spare jersey at me. “Game starts at 7:15.”

I stare at it like she’s handing me a rabid possum. “But we don’t even like baseball,” I protest. “Now that you’re here, why don’t we just settle in and watch mythical creatures fight over a girl who blinks too much and has trouble forming complete sentences. I’ve got wiiine.”

She perks up at the mention of wine and skips into my bedroom. We may have a peaceful night after all. She emerges, bottle in one hand and jersey still in the other. “I am going to chug your precious sauvignon blanc until you put this jersey on and agree to go out with me tonight.”

I start to object, but she chucks the white jersey at me, lifts the bottle to her lips, and begins to gulp. “Okay! Okay I’ll go out with you! Just please save some for me!” By the time I’ve slipped into the jersey, half the bottle has already gone down her guzzling gullet. “If you’re going to force an introvert into a giant crowd of people, you have to make sure she has a little bit of liquid courage first.” I take the bottle from her and down the rest.

“Hell yeah, that’s my girl!” She slaps me on the back like we’re the athletes on the field tonight. “Let’s do this thing.”

We make our way to the metro station, pay for our tickets, and hop on the blue line headed east. The train reeks of stale booze and marijuana. Energetic twenty somethings stand shoulder to shoulder, riding into the city for a night of drinking and debauchery. Tired paper pushers slouch in plastic seats, waiting for the train to deliver them from their monotonous jobs to their homes east of the river. A man in a tattered Blues jacket attempts to hustle money from a couple of kids with Three Card Monte.

The wine has hit me and I feel surprisingly comfortable standing in this speeding sardine can, stocked with smelly souls. I smile and nod as my best friend chats up some other passengers sporting Cardinals gear. We all tumble out together when we reach our destination, and join the throng of fans parading toward the stadium. We take our place in line to file through security and get our tickets scanned. 

“What kind of tickets did you get us?” I ask her.

“Left field bleachers,” she responds. “Like wayyy at the top.”

“Dude, we’re gonna have to go up so many escalators.”

“Dude, next time you can buy the tickets. These were only $6 and they come with a free hot dog.”

I sigh. “You’re right. And I do love free hot dogs.”

“We have to save money where we can, especially since the beers here are like 14 bucks a pop.”

“$14 for a beer?!” I exclaim. “Please, God, tell me you’re joking.”

She slowly shakes her head. “I wish I could, bud. I wish I could.”

“Excuse me, ladies.” We both turn to face two older women behind us, maybe mid sixties, sporting vintage jerseys and culottes. The woman addressing us wears a Cardinals visor atop her blonde bob. “We couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, what with all the shouting about overpriced beer.” I feel myself blush with embarrassment. “Anywho, our husbands couldn’t make it tonight - rescheduled golf tournament - and we have two extra tickets for box seats. Would you care to join us?”

The other woman has a red bandana tied about her silver curls. “They come with unlimited beer and food!” she chimes in.

My friend immediately responds, “We would be honored.” She looks at me, her excited eyes begging me to accept the opportunity.

I look to our saviors and say, “You had me at ‘unlimited beer and food!’”

We all have a laugh at that and continue into the stadium, finding our upgraded seats as we chat with our benefactors. We learn that they have been friends for forty years, even longer than either of them have known their husbands.

“Wow, that’s amazing! I hope we last as long as y’all have,” my friend tells them.

“Just remember, ladies: men come and go, but friendship lasts a lifetime,” says the woman in the bandana. 

I take my best friend’s hand. “I have confidence in us.” She smiles. “Hey. Thank you for making an effort to spend time with me, even when I don’t make it easy.”

“Of course. I’d do anything for you, dummy,” she says with a wink.

Our first round of Budweisers arrive just as the game begins, and I raise my cup. “I would like to make a toast.” I pause to clear a tiny frog from my throat. “To my oldest, dearest friend for dragging me out of my apartment. And to our newest, most generous friends and their many years of friendship - you are truly an inspiration.” I feel other eyes and ears on me from around the box, and some strangers even raise their cans and bottles to join in the cheers. I should feel mortified, terrified, but I don’t. I look at my best friend and my social anxiety fades away. She smiles and her confidence rushes through me. It fills me to the brim, and I have to shout. “Here’s to you, here’s to me, if it’s good times you need, meet me in St. Louie!”