Whiskey and Vermouth

It was when I realized I could barely see the sidewalk beneath my feet that I thought I should probably get off the street. The spots of cemented gum and trampled debris blurred more with each step, and at the time I thought I was racing down the road. But looking back, it might’ve been the four or five Manhattans I’d had. Or were they Long Islands? I loved a Long Island, until I actually went there. Now it just leaves a gross taste in my mouth. I felt myself stumble and focused on my feet, begging them to lead me somewhere, preferably inside, hopefully air-conditioned. I couldn’t ask for safe. I really just wanted to sit down, to rest my aching, stumbling feet.

I wasn’t sure where I was. I knew I had to be out of Center City, because it got so dark all of a sudden. I knew I was still in the city because the cars that passed were loud and impatient. My feet were cramping and blistering and I looked over the railing into the water. It looked so beautiful and inviting at night. It had the brownish stink of a Long Island during the day, but at night it looked so cold and black, like it would take me in and blanket me in sleep. I wondered if it would soothe my feet. I wondered if it would taste sweet. I wondered when I had gotten on a bridge.

I found myself accosted in the vacant street. There stood a figure so towering and intimidating that it felt like I’d shrunk in its shadow. It taunted me with forgotten plans and unmet goals. It waved possibility and escape in my face, knowing I could never afford it. I have a complicated history with the train station on 30th. We were good friends when I was younger. It would whisk me away like an eloping lover, but it would always bring me back home. It took me to Pittsburgh, to D.C., then to Vermont and a few times to New York. Too many times it took me to Long Island.

Now it was like seeing an ex who had married up, who had a salary with more digits than I had toes, who had four kids and a retriever who played together in their backyard, sheltered from the road by a white picket fence. Like seeing what my life might’ve been if I’d never gone to Long Island. I pulled open the heavy door, bracing with my groaning feet. I hoped they would bring me inside.

My shoes had lagged behind on my way to the bench, but I didn’t mind. The relief I felt as I lifted my feet from the shiny floor was almost as heavenly as floating in the black blanket of the Schyukill.

“What a sight you are.” I peeled my eyes open and whipped my head around. There was a man on the bench across from mine, and he looked at me with disgust in his eyes. Or was it pity? At times, I think, the two are the same.

“Hey, man. You’re alone in the train station at,” I squinted to make out the hands of the clock, “four in the morning, just like I am.”

“You’re not alone.”

I was quiet. I couldn’t argue with that. My head was pounding.

“So what was it tonight?”

“What?” I just wanted to go back to sleep.

“What did you drink tonight?”

“I don’t remember. It was bitter.” The vaulted ceiling started to spin. I closed my eyes. He was quiet.

Then, “So how many Manhattans?” I didn’t move, but my face must have shown my surprise. “Those were your father’s favorites, weren’t they?”

I jumped up from my bench, ignoring my screaming feet. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about my dad. Who the fuck are you anyway?” I was inches from his face now, my hands balled into fists, trembling to make contact with his face, with the wall, with anything.

“I was you, once. I still love a Manhattan. It goes down so smooth, doesn’t it? And the cherry, just sweet enough to get the bitter out of your mouth.” He gave me a knowing look.

“Yeah, I guess.” I didn’t really care how the drink tasted.

“But you only care about the person you taste in it, don't you? It’s like you can feel him in the seat next to you, like you can hear him telling you his favorite story for the twentieth time. How his dad took him to that bar in South Philly when he was eighteen, gave him his first taste of whiskey and vermouth.”

My head was spinning too much for this, my feet in too much pain. I looked back into his face and I was met with my father. He wore the tired, disappointed expression he always used to, at least toward the end.

“Did he ever tell you about the bad parts? When his dad screamed in his face, then cried as he apologized. He was so young, he didn’t deserve it. He was younger than me when he started drinking, too. Younger when he left for Long Island.”

I stayed silent. I couldn’t make any sense of the crazy shit this man was saying. How did he know about the Manhattans, the bar in South Philly, the rehab in Long Island?

“You have to know he was never disappointed in you, really. He was disappointed in himself, for making you the way you are. And he was disappointed in me, for making him the way he was.”

I was back on the bench. I couldn’t listen anymore, I wouldn’t. I was nauseous. My eyes lolled and I heard his voice echo in my head. I felt his hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me.

“Jules, you have to break the cycle. Don’t let the Manhattans take you to Long Island.”

My eyes flew open as air filled my lungs. Bright, flashing lights burned my eyes and I cried. I was shaking, I was dying. I searched for the man, for my bench. I was met with the cold black of the Schyukill, and I wondered if my body would stop burning if I could just take a swim. I reached my hand to the river, but I was already being lifted away.

“Yeah, she’s going to need a stomach pump, and then we’ll get her a meeting with the rehab director. She’s really not doing well.” The woman was holding my hand until the ambulance doors closed.

I longed for the bittersweet taste of a Long Island. I longed to see my dad.