Revisionist Mystery

I was seven miles down the road when I heard my destiny.  

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”  

Some poignant truths take a while to detonate, and the missive I wrote earlier on my steamy bathroom mirror was finally coming to fruition.  

“It all stops and starts here,” said Levar, my hyperbolic Lyft driver with a flair for the dramatic. “One might say, ‘commences.’”  

Close enough, I guess. I’d told him about it at the beginning the ride, and I wasn’t going to fault him for paraphrasing my words.  

But, right, he was. I get out of the van and step into the rainy, gray afternoon. It looks like dusk already here in Bellingham, Washington. I grab my go bag, and I find the nearest secluded area to grab a smoke. Here at Bellingham’s tiny little airport—which was a substantial distance outside the city limits—smoking an unruly Marlboro Menthol was damn near punishable by death.  

After the nicotine welcomes my central nervous system back to addiction, I turn on my phone. I see a text from my new landlord, and nothing else. This is good; no one knows I am here. I’ve been careful with my social media posts the past few days. However, I couldn’t resist a few cryptic bon mots, most notably the previous morning when I wrote “I’m headed back home.”  

See, home is many places to me. I’ve lived many chapters, worn many hats, and have had numerous identities over the years. Living as a fun-loving, bass-playing alcoholic in this tiny Northwest college town was one of them. I also moonlighted as a magazine writer. I guess back then I saw it as my duty and obligation to check all of the Bingo squares on the drunk, talented, and tortured soul game.  

My second Lyft ride approaches, and I tell him where I’m headed. I’m doing the hotel thing this first night back, since my apartment keys won’t be in my possession for another day. I get to the Best Western off of Bakerview, and I feel conflicted. Throwing my bag on my bed and freshening up, I feel bummed that I didn’t pick a place within walking distance of the downtown scene.  

Why stop the rideshares now? I head to the hotel lobby, where there is a modest bar and restaurant. I deem this is as good of a place to “pre-func" as any. A television has the Gonzaga game on mute. This isn’t a two-television kind of bar, and that is OK. A cute, young bartender with bright eyes asks how I am and what she can get for me. I forgo the temptation to start laughing maniacally like Mr. Griswold in the department store. I go with a double shot of vodka with a beer back.  

The din of the kitchen and the bar backs’ chatter is broken by a boisterous group of revelers who enter behind me. I glance over, and the party of four looks vaguely familiar. I don’t read too much into it, however, as I have a photographic memory. For all I know, I saw one of them at the post office back in 2006. My brain is strange, but I’ve learned to adapt with a bit of what I like to call ‘meta magic.’  

I call the gang ‘revelers’ because even though it is only 5:50 in the evening, they have that bacchanalian eye of the tiger. They’re buzzed, but they’re in it for the long haul. They give off special night vibes. I’m quick to note that they are just tipsy enough to engage a complete stranger—me—in conversation, but I myself am not there yet. I’m imbibing on an empty stomach, sure, but my eroded liver and central nervous system need time. Failing that, about 10 minutes more of vodka should do the trick. I avoid eye contact, feigning interest in the basketball game.  

The whole time, I’m vexed with just enough self-awareness to feel presumptuous that the soon-to-be revelers would care to engage me. “It’s not all about you, dude,” I whisper to myself. I make it look like I’m bummed about a foul call during the game, so as to not look like a crazy person talking to himself. Which is kind of what I was.  

One can’t help but eavesdrop in such a scenario as the bar at this hour, and as it turns out, the group is returning to Bellingham for the first time in a while. Just like me. At this point, I start to wonder if our paths have crossed. The City of Subdued Excitement, as it is affectionately known, is small. Paths and worlds collide more than I would like. Sometimes it is cool; other times it is an inconvenience. Especially with all of the damage I’ve done in this city. Like an ex-lover, the town may forgive, but doesn’t forget.  

I’m order another round and the check. I catch myself feeling like I’m about to be the center of the group’s attention. “Stop it, crazy,” I mutter. ‘Crazy’ is an apt noun and adjective, but I no longer care how I look to others. I’m prepared to finish my drinks and split.  

“Walk before they make you run.”  

It has always been one of my favorite phrases, and it has served me well. I’m also a fan of knowing my exits. Tonight, I failed admirably with both aphorisms. The blood leaves my face and my stomach turns to knots, and it isn’t just because of my libations. The group—who thankfully doesn’t recognize me, yet—starts to recall one of my most embarrassing moments ever on stage.  

“So, remember the Fireman’s Ball a few years back?” says one of the women. “There was this pretty good 80’s rock cover band, but the bassist fell off the stage! 

He was so hammered, I’m surprised they didn’t just finish the show without him!”  

I can’t chug my beer fast enough. But if I exit too quickly, it will draw the group’s attention. I promise myself not to faint.  

“Yes!” says her turtleneck-wearing companion, who looks straight out of Hallmark Movie central casting. “He, like, used to be in the band permanently, but came up from Seattle for a one-off show or something.”  

I’m going to die. The irony is cruel. The poison that made me embarrass myself years ago was helping me now. I was going numb. My beer was finished and the check was paid, but I couldn’t walk away. It was like getting stuck watching a string of bad Facebook Reels. You know there are far more healthy ways to spend your time, but the next thing you know, you’ve burnt 45 minutes that you’re never getting back.  

The bartender puts two and two together, and her almond-shaped eyes are comforting somehow. Not in a “I think I want to hit on her” sort of way. This was more like a pretty guardian angel guiding me through a shit storm. Her nametag says Mary, and her provision of salvation is more than a fitting metaphor.  

“So, I’ll tell ya what, Steve, we’ll just bill the rest to your room,” she said. “No need to worry about the catering order now.”  

I realize that she is talking nonsense, but I intuitively gather that I should play along.  

“Sounds good. I’ll just let my manager know that you guys have it covered for 8 a.m. tomorrow,” I reply, without missing a beat.  

The garrulous crowd continues chatting about my dipsomaniac distress from eons ago. Even better is that they remember another night from an equally embarrassing would-be gig. It entailed me spilling the contents of my dinner on my shirt. While on stage. I always said I’d get my Amy Winehouse merit badge somehow or another. It might be time for a change, as I don’t want to be the real life fifth installment of A Star is Born. 

Up in my room, I question why I am there. Not in a deep, existential sort of way. I’m wondering why I’m physically in the damn room when it was just part of Mary’s cover story for me. I guess I needed a recharge before I got into trouble for the evening.  

Time has a funny way of distorting events, and revisionist history can run rampant if it helps you sleep at night. Horrific memories from the past tend to get glossed over in my mind—e.g. ‘oh everyone’s had their bad nights.’ And while this belief was put to the test in the hotel bar a few moments ago, I realize that a small town doesn’t offer much in the way of anonymity.  

At least the group of prodigal Bellinghamsters—as the locals are known in specie—didn't actually place me as the clumsy bassist from many years ago. On this particular evening, I was just another guy at the bar. Little did they know that I was the pantaloon that they were reminiscing about.  

I decide to stay in for the evening. I decided I have the rest of my life to create new memories in this cozy town. I also need to be clear-headed for tomorrow’s moving in to my new place. I turn on the TV, but I leave it on mute. I grab my guitar out of its case, plug it into my travel amp, and let ‘er rip. On this day, it was time to write a new soundtrack for the rest of my life.