Cocktails and Confessions

April 3, 2023

I specifically requested this night off, yet here I am, another Friday pulling a double. I’m annoyed, angry almost, though no one here can see it. I’m charming and witty, charismatic and refined, everything I need to be to earn generous tips. After a while I settle in, catching my stride, not even glancing at the clock. I talk to strangers apathetically, pouring them whatever they desire, and watch them slip into a less than ideal impaired state. Talk of the weather, the latest sports games, and politics, turns into overshares about relationships, over-ambitious plans for the future, and excuses for why life didn’t turn out the way they hoped. I’ve become numb to most of it, offering up my rehearsed lines of condolences and generic advice. Sometimes I’m met with acceptance at my feedback, as though saying “things can only get better” is somehow a new concept. Other times I’m met with resistance and comments like “you’re too young to understand.” Either way, it's all become pretty dry and unoriginal.  

As the evening crowd begins pouring in, and the tempo picks up, these types of conversations dwindle and work becomes more about keeping up with the demands (opening and closing tabs, mixing several drinks at a time, putting in food tickets for the kitchen, and still keeping up with steady small talk). Once, I have to cut off a man who starts getting handsy with a clearly uncomfortable girl, barely old enough to be in here, and request that security escort him out. 

At about 8:30pm I recognize a woman sitting in a corner table by herself. I had made her a long island around 7pm. Her drink remains untouched, and the condensation has left a small puddle on the table. Next to her drink are a few books, though they remain closed and neatly stacked on one another. She appears to be people watching, but in an uninterested sort of way. Her eyes are glassy and her posture rigid, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looks like she is maybe in her mid 30’s with wavy blonde hair that is pretty in a wind-blown way. She wears a basic white tank top with a baggy grey sweater falling off one shoulder, though she doesn’t seem to notice. Over the course of the night, I keep glancing over in her direction. Her drink remains full and her books unopened. Finally, at 2am I ring our over-sized ‘last call’ bell and begin closing out tabs and cleaning up half drunk glasses and appetizer plates. The crowd begins to file out, some with the person they came with, some with new friends or potential one-night-stands, and some alone.  

I glance over at the lone woman as she stands up, drops cash on the table for a watered down drink, and puts her books in a large shoulder bag. As she picks the bag up by one handle instead of two, one of her books drops on the seat, and without realizing it walks out, still holding her lopsided bag with one strap dangling loosely by the ground. I hurry over to her seat, grab the leather-bound book and run after her, but by the time I get outside she’s gone, absorbed by the crowd of inebriated people waiting for their Ubers.  

April 4, 2023 

I overslept this morning. Can’t really blame me though, since I didn’t get home until after 3am. Still, my girlfriend Tess yells at me as though I should be waking up with her at 7am, like I work a 9-5 job or something. I kiss her goodbye, half asleep, and roll over, falling back into my REM cycle seamlessly. I wake up around 1pm and check my phone. One call from my mom, but other than that, no new messages. I’ll call her later. As I put my phone back on my nightstand, I see the leather book I brought home with me. I couldn’t find the woman last night to return it to her, so I figured I would bring it back to work, thinking she might stop in looking for it. I’m curious though, and ignore my mom’s voice in my head telling me it’s rude to look through someone else’s things without permission.  

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August 9, 2022 

I guess I’m going to try doing this. Not sure where to start. I’ve never written to myself before. Is that what I’m doing? I doubt that I’ll stick with this. I feel like an idiot. They said I should write down how I’m feeling, as if I’m talking to someone else that I’m comfortable opening up to. OK, well I feel like shit. It’s my first day back home. It’s been 6 weeks, but I feel like a stranger in my own house. Like I don’t belong here. I’m thinking maybe I should move. Get a fresh start.

Is that enough? Can I be done now?

August 12, 2022 

I’d be lying if I said that writing didn’t make me feel a little better. Even just those few sentences. I didn’t realize I wanted to move. I guess maybe I thought about it in my head, but writing it out on paper made it feel more concrete. I’ve always been told that writing in a journal can be therapeutic. I just thought that was another thing therapists tell you to try. You know, like meditating. Maybe I should try meditating. 

Today I have my first meeting since getting out, but it’s really just a check in, to make sure I’m staying on track. I feel like I’m being babysat.  

August 13, 2022 

The meeting was so absurd. We all had to sit in a circle and go around saying our name, like we were in kindergarten. Then we had to say “hi” to everyone who wanted to share and listen to their story about why they were there, and then clap when they were done talking. I didn’t share. No one needs to know my life. I'm not even ready to face it yet, how can I share it with strangers? Still, I signed in, went through the motions, and got some free snacks at the end. Guess it wasn’t a total loss since I haven’t gone grocery shopping. The canned tuna I’m living off is doing fine for now. Still, I should probably get some real food. I should probably get a job too. Not sure how much longer I can live off of unemployment.  

August 15, 20222 

I hate going to the grocery store. Everywhere I look is temptation. I guess I hadn’t realized it before. It’s so easy to ignore when it’s not off limits.

I haven’t heard from Sloan. I don’t know if she knows I’m out. She probably does and is ignoring me. I wouldn’t want to see me. 

Am I doing this whole journal thing right? Feels like I’m just venting.

---

These entries are only 8 months old, and I can’t help but laugh at them. This girl is a mess. She’s clearly got some self-esteem problems and possibly an addiction. I close the journal and put it back on my nightstand. I have the day off today, even though it should have been yesterday. Last night I was supposed to be at my friend's 23rd birthday party. It seems kind of juvenile to still be doing birthday parties at our age, but I never shy away from an open bar, especially when I’m on the receiving end. As a bartender at 23, my life basically revolves around alcohol. If I’m not serving it, I’m either drinking it or throwing it up. That’s what being in your early 20’s is all about after all. Tess tells me I need to grow up though, that I should start thinking about what I want to do with my life. She’s a paralegal about to take the Bar exam and knows exactly where she wants her path to take her, but I’m not so sure I’ll be walking on that path with her. 

April 5, 2023 

I wake up dehydrated and nauseous, wishing I would have quit after the 4th round of kamikazes last night. After Tess got home, we went over to our local hipster bar in the warehouse district where we met a few of our friends. I had made the argument that I needed to compensate for missing the party the night before, and while I was met with an eye-roll from her, she admitted she wouldn't mind blowing off some steam. Unlike me however, she knows when to stop. She’s already awake of course and has probably eaten breakfast and showered. I wish I could have her discipline. 

After vomiting twice, and sitting in the shower for a half hour, I sit back down in bed with just a towel on, my eyes drifting back to the journal on my nightstand. I don’t know why I’m compelled to read more, it wasn’t even that interesting, just the ramblings of someone trying to cope with whatever mistakes they’ve made, like the rest of the world. 

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August 24th, 2022  

I called Sloan today, but she didn’t answer. I know she’s ignoring me. I also went to two more meetings. I still don’t like them, but I have to go because they’re part of my treatment plan. If I don't show up, I could easily be sent back to rehab for violation. I almost spoke up at the last one though. A part of me wanted to share, wanted to tell everyone why I was there. When I watch people sit down after they’ve shared, they look almost relieved. I want some of that relief too. I think I might try next time if I feel brave enough. I don’t want everyone judging me though. I get enough of that from Sloan. If I had anyone else in my life, I would get it from them too.  

September 5th, 2022 

I did it. I finally shared. I was nervous at first, but once I started talking it all just came pouring out. Like I needed to tell someone, like it was eating me alive. Surprisingly, no one laughed or made any mean comments, they actually all looked like they genuinely cared. When I sat back down, I felt some of that relief I was craving, even though I was shaking a little, but that was probably just adrenaline. After my turn was over, the girl next to me stood up and announced that she was one year sober. I clapped for her like everyone else and envied the chip she received from our counselor. Why did I envy that?  

---

I hear Tess calling me from the other room, so I close the journal with the intent of finishing it later. I’m curious if this person is going to reveal in their journal what they did that was so bad. At this point, it’s clear that they were struggling with alcoholism and going to AA. I never understood how people get so addicted to drinking. It’s not a hard drug like cocaine or heroin. I love it of course, but I don’t need it. At least I don’t think I need it. I decide not to tell Tess about the journal, she’ll probably say the same thing my mom would. The women in my life are such killjoys.  

April 6, 2023

As I begin to wait on customers today, listening to their problems and watching them go down the rabbit hole, I find myself paying closer attention. I try to peg the ones who can drink casually, the ones with a higher tolerance, and the ones who become obnoxious versus those who become giddy. I try and see myself in them and figure out what kind I am. I think I’m an obnoxious drunk and sometimes a little violent. That’s just part of the fun though, right? Suddenly I feel a pang of guilt, recalling the nights that Tess had to apologize for my behavior, or sacrifice her night out because she had to sober up to drive us home and put me in bed. I can't remember ever needing to carry her to bed after a night out. I don’t drink every night though, and that’s the tell-tale sign of a true drunk, isn’t it?

As I continue to ponder these questions, I keep mindlessly glancing at the journal. I thought the girl might come in today looking for it, so I brought it in and left it on a stool behind the bar, making sure no one could see it. While I'm waiting for her to come in, I figure I might as well read some more. I realize that I’m pulling for this girl’s situation to get better, even though I don’t know the whole situation. 

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September 18th, 2022 

I went to the hospital today. It’s the first time that I’ve been since the accident 3 months ago. When I saw him in the hospital bed hooked up to tubes and his wife by his side, I had to leave. She saw me standing outside his room though, and followed me down the hall where she began yelling at me and sobbing simultaneously. One of the nurses had to hold her and guide her back to his room. I broke down in my car and couldn’t stop crying for a good while. Afterwards, I drove to a liquor store and just sat in the parking lot for almost an hour. 

September 30th, 2022 

Sloan called me today. She told me they took him off the ventilators. That he was brain dead. Apparently she had been in communication with the hospital, checking on his status regularly. She said she never wants to see me again. That I’m as good as dead to her, like the man whose life I stole. I’m as good as dead to me too.  

---

That’s it. I flip through the book hoping to find more but there are no more entries. I sit there, soaking up what I just read, dumbfounded. The journal ends on a cliffhanger. How did the man die and what happened to the girl? Why did she stop writing? The entries are from months ago, but I just saw her a few nights ago with this very journal. Why is she just carrying it around but not writing in it? It makes sense now why she didn't touch her drink. Why even order it all though? I for sure wouldn't have the willpower to resist that kind of temptation.

Suddenly, I’m pulled back to reality as my manager tells me my break is about over, and that I need to get back on the floor. I put the journal back where I left it, unable to get the last entry out of my mind, but still manage to work without fail all the same. Fortunately, it’s a weekday so the crowd is much less abundant. 

As the evening dies down, and I begin doing my side-work (cutting lemons and limes, rolling silverware, and cleaning down the bar), the girl walks in. Her eyes dart around the room and land on the table she was sitting at a few days prior. As she walks over, I see disappointment flood her eyes as she realizes the journal is not on the seat. She must have known it wouldn't still be there days later. I look over where the journal sits on the stool. I want to return it to her but she’ll know I read it, and with it being so personal, I don’t want to embarrass her. I make a snap decision and grab it apprehensively, walking over to where she’s seated herself, her eyes fixed on the table.

“Miss?” I say, in an uncertain voice. She looks up at me, flustered with red puffy eyes. 

“Can I help you?” she says, taken aback, wiping her face with her sleeve. 

“I believe this is yours,” I say, holding out the journal.

Her eyes widen as she gently takes it from my outstretched hand. “I thought I lost it,” she says, on the verge of crying. She opens it up, probably making sure I didn’t tamper with it in any way. “Did you read it?” she asks, clearly already knowing the answer. I look down at my feet, feeling ashamed and guilty, knowing I really shouldn’t have, that I should have listened to my mom’s little voice. My lack of answer tells her everything she needs to know.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re very brave,” I say, half smiling and knowing as soon as I said those words that I should have just kept my mouth shut. She gives me a puzzled look and looks down at the journal, suddenly realizing my mistake. 

“It’s not mine,” she says matter-of-factly. “It was my mother’s. She died a few months back, and these were her last thoughts.” She begins tearing up as she continues. I’m not sure what it is about bars that makes everyone feel like they can share so openly, but I listen intently anyway, curious to find out what happened. “She was in an accident. She hit another car head on when she was driving drunk. My mom, and the woman in the other car walked away, but her husband took the brunt of it, and they had to induce him into a coma after a severe brain bleed. He didn’t make it. But you already knew that if you read it,” she says, in an icy tone.

I don’t know what to say to this. I assumed this girl standing in front of me was the author of the journal, and that these were her problems. I never considered they were someone else’s. “I’m sorry,” are the only words I find. 

“Thank you...” she says flatly, trying to find my name so she can finish her compulsory appreciation.

“Brian,” I say, finishing her sentence. 

“Sloan,” she says, shaking my hand with an ingenuine half-smile.

"Can I get you a drink?" I say without thinking. I know instantly that for the second time in our short conversation I should have kept my mouth shut. It's just second nature as a bartender to offer someone a drink when they look upset.

"No. You can't," she says plainly. With that she turns and walks out, her head hanging down, her arms hugging the journal in a tight embrace. 

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April 7, 2023 

I think I’m going to give this a try...