Friday Morning

It tasted like rum, because, well…it was rum. And coke. And a lime. It felt foreign as it entered my system. Likely because it was 9:14 am on a Friday morning. I didn’t order it for myself, no. I had walked in an hour prior and ordered a coffee, and unpacked my computer. Paul, the gentlemen in the Al’s Car Wash t-shirt, looking in his mid 60’s and freshly shaven, had ordered it for me. What about me said “rum and coke” to him, I wondered. I wish I were more upset by this as opposed to thankful. I nodded a thank-you and sunk my elbows deeper into the soft, wood bar. I contemplated ordering a grilled cheese.

I called my dad. I didn’t tell him I was at a bar or that I was polishing off a mixed drink as he sat at his desk, waiting for a sales call. I told him I was at a cafe writing and hoped he couldn’t hear the slurp of the cocktail straw. He didn’t know about the blowout of a morning I’d had or that I was becoming untethered from the stainless steel pole that kept my body erect and functioning on any given day.

There were 6 other people in the bar. 1 bartender and 5 other gentlemen in coveralls, coming off of night shifts. And Paul. Paul was just starting his day, judging by the strong smell of his aftershave wafting down the bar-well. They were all sitting alone, seats apart, eating BLT’s and french fries, hunched over and palming tall glasses of beer. And then there was me. A wife, a mother, unemployed, snarling at my keyboard.

It was 75 and full sun out on the patio, but I preferred the 11 pm indoor lighting and smoky haze inside. The music shuffled between Jethro Tull and Michael Jackson. My mood didn’t know whether to slam drinks and think about cornfields or put on socks and practice floating across the floor. I chewed another cuticle and ripped it from my thumb. The pain ping-ponged from my chest to my hand, hand to my chest. I flagged down the waitress and ordered the grilled cheese.

And that was my Friday morning.