My Sobriety - James Markels

Self-Realization - This always happens to me at the oddest times, such as right now in the dusky lighting of the Crossroads Bar. It comes upon me so clearly and so strongly that I wonder if I spend the rest of my time just floating through life carelessly, instinctively, without actually putting any thought behind what I do or say. It’s a Friday evening, around 8:30, and I’m on my second Budweiser. Val sits across the booth’s table from me as always, smoking a cigarette and drinking his own beer. He’s got a badly trimmed mustache and hard, squinting eyes. We work at the Southern Electricity and Power Plant together. We talk about our jobs a lot.

And at this point of self-realization, I listen to Val talking about the last big thunderstorm and how he had to work past 3 a.m. that night, and I wonder if I sound as dull or as awkward as he. I work with him, I drink with him, am I really like him? Does Val ever realize what he sounds like? Does he ever wonder if I see him the way I see him now? And does this realization make me a better person for it? Is it supposed to matter?

At times like this all the colors I see become sharply defined; vivid contrasts occur between similar colors that weren’t there before. The red on Val’s plaid shirt conflicts violently with the white, drawing territorial boundaries defined by flannel. Nothing blends with anything in my eyes—even the minute wrinkles in Val’s face or the wiry frame underneath the shirt or the wooden roughness of the table or the three distinct ashes that have escaped onto the table from the ashtray near Val are all stark and real in contrast with anything near them.

The feeling passes gladly in a moment, and I’m washing my throat with beer. Val is looking at me. Do I need another beer? What the hell, it’s Friday. People are starting to arrive now, and the bar is getting a little life in it. But it still bothers me, how I just felt. I’m glad I didn’t feel it for too long because I don’t like seeing myself that way.

Sobriety - It must be around 11 by now. Val and I aren’t in the booth anymore, we’ve moved to the pool tables in the back room. All three pool tables are in use with a handful of people off to the side watching the games, perhaps waiting their turn. There are posters for various beer brands on the walls, occasional graffiti (“Gilson beat Potter 3/22/93 3 - 1!”), and a few arcade games in the corner. Val and I are playing this guy and girl team in straight 8-Ball. She’s pretty trashed already, needing her male friend to help her use the cue stick. She’s honestly attractive without being remarkable, and I think what a shame it is that she’s so drunk so early.

Val and I are winning. Our lady opponent goes to the bathroom after she scratches the cue ball. Her guy friend tells us that he made her do shots of tequila before they went out. I figure as much. I swig from my beer before knocking the Three Ball in the corner pocket. It’s okay, we don’t mind winning. I grin to myself as I set up the Eight Ball for the side pocket.

She’s back. She’s glad the game is over. She kisses her friend sloppily as he holds her up. Val and I look at each other as the next team in line ponies-up the quarters for the next game. It’s not even midnight and she’s got to be carried home. Too bad.

Ignorance - It’s about an hour and a half later. Val and I just did a shot of Jagermeister each, and I had to steel myself to stay stable. I’m glad the barstaff goes around picking up empty bottles for us, because I really don’t want to see how much I’ve had.

There are five of us now, sitting in a booth again. A little while ago our friend Russell from the Power Company came in with his wife Laura and her friend Susan. They had already been at Kings And Queens and decided to come here on a whim. It was too crowded over there. That was fine by us.

Russell and Laura are a cute couple, married only for five months so far, and there is a silly innocence between them. Their hands are always making company with each other. She doesn’t look pregnant yet, but I figure they’ll be working on that soon. That’s so nice.

Susan is simply cute all by herself. Just a little blonde lady with a nice flowery dress and watery blue eyes. She is drinking Miller Lite out of the same pitcher that Russell and Laura bought. It must be drag being single and hanging out with a married couple. I feel a little sad for her, so after I finish my bottled beer I get another pitcher of Miller Lite and two glasses for Susan and I. She thinks that was really nice of me. Val ribs me under the table. It’s no big deal, I just understand what that is like, that’s all. At this point, the Miller tastes fine anyway.

Russell and Val are talking about the district manager, Morton Augman. He’s this stiff, bearded fellow, hard to talk to if you don’t know him very well. Well, Russell was telling Morty yesterday about how he and Laura were having sex for as long as they could and they wound up breaking three condoms that night. Morty just looked at him blankly. You broke her what? Russell didn’t break her anything, he broke the condoms, and Morty still had no clue. “What the hell is a condom?” Morty asked. Russell breaks out laughing, as do the rest of us. Good old Morty, the innocent one of the bunch...doesn’t even know what a condom is. Oh sure, we all believe that since Morty’s wife only used the Pill, that’s a good enough excuse. Or even better was his explanation that he never paid attention in the drug aisle, since he didn’t need another kind of birth control anyway. We laugh about them both. Good old Morty.

We conspire in our booth to fill Morty’s desk with condoms on Monday. We’ll go in early and have everyone around his office when he comes in. It’ll be hilarious, especially since Morty has to meet with the Branch Manager first thing. We laugh.

Morty doesn’t even know about condoms. It makes me start thinking about whether we all have natural blind spots as we go through our lives. We just tend to ignore the things that don’t interest us or supply our needs. What are each of us ignorant about? I look at the members of our little group, and then at the crowd that was chattering around us and drinking. What is it I’m missing?

I put the thought out of my head as I refill my glass. We toast to condoms. Inside I hope that whatever it is I don’t know doesn’t matter.

Depth...Running Out Of Room - I’m talking with Susan about the scar I have on my hand from a car accident I was in five years ago. This guy hit me on the driver’s side while I was crossing an intersection and the shattered glass from my window fell on to me, cutting my hand pretty bad and breaking my arm. She seems pretty interested in my story. I’m looking at the beer in my glass and I can see the bottom. There’s a bubble on the top, held close by foam, that is a tiny Titanic over an ocean of Miller. It reminds me about how small everything is in context, from a bubble to a glass, from a planet to the universe. It’s so deep in that glass. I wonder if I’ll ever get through it all without throwing up or losing my balance.

I look over and the other three are talking. I realize that Susan and I are talking together without a third party. It surprises me for some reason.

She touches my arm and I look at her. She wants me to play a song for her on the jukebox. I nod, and she scoots out to let me go do that. When we both stand at the end of the booth I draw near to hear her request, and I am suddenly aware of her physicalness, her solidity. I smell a hint of perfume sucking my attention to her skin and then deeper. I can’t explain, but it seems like she suddenly became fully three-dimensional to me right then. Before I could just hear and see her, but now I had a full appreciation. The moment passes quickly once she tells me the song, and I head off through the thick crowd toward the jukebox, quarter in hand. The close proximity to all the people works in my mind. All of these people, all of this depth, all of this realness. A strong back here, an arm, clothing with skin underneath, flesh and bones below that...it makes me feel alive.

When I come back she thanks me and let me back in. She is back to being only See and Hear again. It is disappointing. I look at Russell and Laura. I wonder if their marriage is as real and alive as Susan or the crowd was.

What Is Your Number? - Susan’s song comes on the jukebox and her eyes light up. She wants to dance to it. I don’t like the idea of standing anymore, but no one else will join her. Fine, I guess I will. I have to lean a little against her as we make room in the crowd for ourselves. We only touch occasionally, but I’m feeling her depth again. I notice a bead of sweat on her neck and follow it to her shoulder. I follow her rhythm as best as I can. The crowd is all around us, bumping into and being bumped by our dancing. She’s smiling.

“Now me and you right from the very sta-art...” I’ve never heard the song before. I don’t even remember what she told me when I first went to the jukebox. I feel a trickle of sweat down my side and it itches. The air is stifling, full of smoke and people’s breath. I draw close to Susan and I ask her if she’d like to get some fresh air outside, maybe go for a walk. She nods and flashes her eyes. The song ends and we tell our group that we’ll be back, we just need some fresh air. I guide her through the crowd for the door, and the sweet crisp air shoots into my lungs instantly.

The Walk And The Bridge - We start walking towards a bridge just down the road over the Millerton Creek. I just need to get some strength back into my legs, so a walk seems like a good idea. I can still taste the beer thickly in my mouth. I try to spit it out into the forest on the side of the road, but it refuses to leave.

My legs are feeling less wobbly as we talk about what we do for a living. She’s a bank teller at Southern. I’ve never seen her because I bank at Riggs. Her job is boring, except that she gets to handle large amounts of money. Must be nice. I tell her about my work at the power company. I don’t tell her much because I remember how Val seemed to me earlier tonight when we talked about the same thing. It was enough for her, at least.

I thank her for the dance. I really needed to move around a little bit to stay soberish. She laughs. Did I need help walking now? I smile. Sure. She takes my arm and we reach the street-lighted bridge, beneath which the ten-foot-wide stream chuckles softly.

We stand there on the side of the bridge, watching the water. I can feel her arm against mine, her arm against my side and mine against hers. She is so real again to me. I draw close to her in hopes of smelling her perfume, and I feel her hair against my forehead. Her hair was fragrant. It makes my head a little light. I put my head on her shoulder and she giggles, smoothing my hair with her other hand.

It was the most incredible feeling right then, resting against her shoulder with her hand moving of its own accord on me. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else but these two things. Her warmth against my cheek, the light fabric of her dress to my skin, her fingers trailing protectively over my hair, her body swelling and fading with each breath, all of these things swallowed my attention. It’s so nice being drunk sometimes, because you tend to notice and appreciate these little things in life so much more than when you’re sober and worrying about work or bills or something. You realize the closeness, the touch, the reality of things with respect to your skin.

I open my eyes because the intensity of her is making me dizzy. It takes me a moment to focus. I lock my gaze upon the bridge’s guardrail. I do not move until it stops moving.

Re-orienting, I turn my head so I can kiss her neck. Her skin tastes sweet and salty. I could sense her smiling. I tell her that there was a place under the bridge that we could sit and watch the water go by without having to be bothered by cars. She thinks that would be nice, so I hold on to her hand as we step through the foliage and escape to the darker and cooler comfort next to the stream.

Time Being Kept - Except for the gentle flowing of the stream and our breathing, the only sound is from her wristwatch that ticks loudly. I never noticed it before, but the dry chipping sound echoes in our makeshift privacy. She’s sitting next to me on a large flat rock, her features a mask of darkness with a hint of light from the streetlight above the bridge reflecting off the water. It feels like she’s waiting for me to do something, watching me in the dark.

I lean towards her, guided by my hands, and she accepts me. With so little light available I have to rely on touch. Somehow our lips find each other. She tastes warm to me, and I want more of it. She’s full against me: solid, whole, deep. I am entranced by it. Am I as real and as complete as she is right now? Does my body come alive like this, pulsing with blood and vigor, breathing, tingling in awareness? I must be like the dead during the day, my limbs going through the motions without thought, clipping tree limbs that have grown too close to the power lines and sweating underneath my collar. She is so vibrant. I want to be a part of it.

My hands begin to seek out more of her. I feel the thigh muscles under the skin, padded with womanly fat. My other hand is on her shoulder, trailing over the bone toward her upper back. There’s so much of her here, pressed against my lips and pressed upon by my fingers, to explore.

I begin to lean her back against the rock, and her body strains against me. My hand caresses her cheek so that I can find her mouth more easily. Her hands are against my arms, the ticking of her watch breaking my thoughts. She shrugs one hand away, and it closes over the watch on her wrist to silence the noise. It protests steadily against my palm. But then she is moving against me, and it confuses me. She’s separating herself. I’m losing her. I’m losing her feeling.

Her lips break away from mine. “Stop,” she says. She is shaking slightly, her breathing coming quickly. She seems . . . afraid? Afraid of what?

I draw back, my hand coming off the watch, the ticking rejoining the world. The parts of me once warmed by her body are chilled by the night air. I couldn’t see her face.

“Oh God,” I said.

Watersong - I’m off of her and sitting close to the stream, staring into it. She is behind me on the rock, her dress back down to her knees where it belongs. There are a lot of things going through my mind right now, but they are all absorbed by the calmness of the water. I look to my right where it flows to and see it disappear into the late-night darkness. I feel that feeling come over me right then, that instance of realization. It is all right here, right now, and I have finally figured it out.

All this water, flowing down the Millerton Creek, will flow from here West to the Messagano Lake, and from there make its way South to the greater entity of the Mississippi and then to the godlike Gulf Of Mexico and on into the Atlantic. And so will everyone’s actions this moment create the ripples that grow into greater consequences and effects upon ourselves and those we touch. My foot reaches out and pokes the water, and it was that touch that would change the water’s path for miles to come in my own unperceivable way. It is all so natural now of an understanding as it rolls through my mind. A single moment turning into a year or a hundred years, and it is all right there.

I wish I knew what to say to her. I wish there was some way to let her know it was just a mistake. I was just drunk, a little carried away. I stopped. Was that enough? My conscience aches as everything that happened keeps rolling over and over in my mind in slow motion. Her word, “Stop,” resonates in my weakened stomach.

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