“Any prospects for kids, marriage, financial progress … Stop me when I hit on something—”
“Okay, I get it. My life is shit.” I took the bowl of dough and headed for the door.
“Yo, I never said that,” Moe objected, hopping off the counter and stopping me from leaving. “And if you’re happy, man, then that’s great for you. But, your brother might be thinking you aren’t happy, you know what I’m sayin’? And with everything going on in his life, he might not wanna rub it in that you’re just …”
“Just, what?” I spat angrily.
“Coasting,” he finished, regret blazing in his kind, sympathetic eyes.
That stung. It stung a lot. But, determined to not let it show, I concluded, “Yeah, well, maybe I’m happy just coasting,” before I left the kitchen in a huff.
***
I once read about a woman who, even though she was on a diet, enjoyed watching other people eat dessert. She said it was enough to live vicariously through other people, indulging in the things she couldn't let herself have.
That was me with booze. After years of substance abuse and rehab, I had sworn off drugs and alcohol. But, while I couldn't drink, I enjoyed the atmosphere of a bar. I liked the grit. I liked that everyone came together with one goal in mind: to get drunk. And while I couldn't partake, I wanted to, and that was enough to feel connected with these people.
I was sat on a stool, bellied up against the bar with a glass of Coke in hand. I knew it wasn't booze, but to anyone else, it looked like it could've been. The bartender, a buddy of mine called Goose, for one reason or another, wiped down a martini glass as the beginning notes to Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Sweet Home Alabama” blared through the speakers.
“Son of a fucking bitch!” he shouted, throwing the rag down on the bar. “Can someone in this place change the goddamn song?”
“Ah, come on, Goosey. You love this song,” I teased, bringing my glass to my lips.
“Oh, yeah. And you know what my favorite thing about it is?”
I placed my drink back onto the bar and gestured for him to go on. “Please, tell me.”
“I love that these people insist on playing it over and over and over again. That's my fucking favorite.”
I snorted, shaking my head and knowing he was partly right. The jukebox was a hot spot at Goose's bar, and he had made sure to keep a wide selection of music in its library. But for some unknown reason, the song that got the most attention was always good ol' “Sweet Home Alabama” and over the years, I had watched my friend slowly lose his sanity over it.
“You know, you could get rid of it,” I pointed out. “I mean, I dunno if anybody has told you this before, but you own that jukebox.”
“Yeah, except that,” he leaned his elbows against the bar and came in close, lowering his voice, “what if this fuckin’ song is the only reason people come to my shitty little bar?”
Chuckling, I shook my head, as I glanced in the direction of the surrounded jukebox. Drunk girls danced with equally drunk guys, singing at the top of their lungs and laughing as if it wasn't the fifth time they'd heard it tonight.
“Huh,” I muttered, before turning back to him. “Maybe you're right. Maybe your success all comes down to this one freakin' song.”
Goose nodded, eyes widening, as he said, “That's what I'm sayin', man.”
“Maybe,” I lifted a finger, “you should be more grateful, then.”
“Oh, hell no.” He backed away from the bar and grabbed another rag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Never gonna happen. I mean, I won't get rid of it, but I'm not gonna stop bitchin’ about it, either.”
“Fair enough.”
The conversation drifted off, replaced by the lyrics about Birmingham and Watergate, while I stared blankly at the bubbles collecting inside my glass, remembering the conversation I’d had with Moe.
Was I jealous of Zach? I hadn’t really thought about it before, but now, I wondered. Our lives had always run pretty parallel to each other, for as long as I could remember. Even when he was the first to venture out on his own, I hadn’t been jealous or resentful. His place had given me somewhere to run to, when the apartment in Brooklyn I’d shared with the rest of my family became too stifling. But things were different now, and he wasn’t just a quick subway ride away.