He wasn’t particularly talkative tonight. Tish had the floor, regaling us with the trauma and drama of life in the seventh grade. I thought for a moment there that Alex had completely gone into his own world. So much so that I almost made Tish stop her chatter. But then he joined in with some of his own exploits from grammar school, and I was glad that I didn’t intervene. Tish found him amusing, and I have to admit, I did, too.
Now he’s sitting at the kitchen table and I think the only reason he hasn’t moved is because he’s unable to do so.
“Did you have enough? I think I have one piece of veal left,” I tell him.
“No more,” he says, and it sounds like a groan.
“I have ice cream,” I tease.
“You’re evil,” he tells me.
Yes, some days I am. I’m feeling particularly evil because I’ve had such a nice day. Meeting Nyle, finding the library, getting my card for free; it all added up to such a good feeling that I went to the market and whipped up this meal. Special. The veal melted in our mouths. The pasta was tender, al dente, perfection. And I DO have ice cream, but I believe that Mr. M is stuffed to capacity at the moment.
“You can have some later,” I tell him. And I put a tiny cup of espresso in front of him, along with a small pile of chocolate covered coffee beans. “Have this, it will settle your stomach,” I say.
“I can’t.”
“You can. Drink up, and don’t tell me it’s bitter, I know it is. It’s supposed to be.”
He gives me a dark look, his eyes narrow, the lashes making inky lines above and below his brown irises. But he sips his coffee, then he chews a few beans, takes another sip, and belches.
“That’s ever so attractive,” I say, but I’m laughing at the look of sheer relief on his face. He does it again, and then heaves a very large sigh. “Oh, very nice.”
“It’s your fault.”
“I didn’t sit on your chest and force feed you. No one told you that stuffing in that third plateful was the thing to do.”
“Is too your fault, you cook too good.”
“I will not accept responsibility for your bad behavior,” I tell him. A strange look steals across his face, but goes away as quickly as it came. It’s quickly followed by him sticking out his tongue at me. “Oh, yes, mature response, Alex, very mature response.”
He picks up a coffee bean and begins to chew. It’s not the beans that are bitter; the beans have a rich, full taste. It’s the espresso. I wish I could give him some anisette, but that’s not on his list of acceptable beverages. I’ll have to remember to get some licorice for these occasions. Maybe I can even find some anise-flavored tea.
He can’t help it, he makes a face after taking another sip of the strong coffee, but it has the desired effect: he belches again.
“Lovely,” I say, grinning at him over my own cup. He answers with another belch and a smile. “Told you it would make you feel better.”
“That was a helluva dinner,” he says.
“I can tell that you liked it. Are you sure I can’t interest you in licking out the pans?”
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Shi is in a good mood tonight. She’s been teasin’ me since I stepped through the door and it hasn’t stopped all evening. Bein’ here in the kitchen has been the best part of my day, even if I’ve given myself a massive stomachache. And it IS her fault, she DOES cook too good. I can’t remember eating like this since I was a kid livin’ with my grandma and grandpa.
I wonder what Shi did all day. Since Friday we’ve been kinda, I dunno, hangin’ out together. Shopping, getting’ groceries and the furniture. The party on Saturday. Even Sunday she was around here, swimming with Tish. I got used to having her around. I kinda like it. Beats sittin’ here alone and god knows I’ve done enough of that. But today we were both on our own, and she’s in a great mood and I’m only just gettin’ to be in a great mood. So whatever she did today sure must’ve been a helluva lot better than what I did.
“Must’ve taken you all day to make that dinner,” I say.
“No, that’s a quick one. Only about an hour and most of that is prep work.” She sips her espresso. This shit’s bitter as hell, but it makes my stomach feel better. Shi seems to enjoy it, though. She has this tiny bit of lemon peel that she’s playin’ with, running it around and around the rim of the espresso cup. I didn’t even know I HAD espresso cups, but maybe Shi bought them, too. Hard to tell. All I know is that I haven’t run out of anything in the house in about a month now, and this is damn well the way I like it.
Shi smiles at me.
“So, beyond your golf game, how did the rest of your day go?” she asks me.
“Okay. Got the stitches out. Everything’s cool with that. Like I can drive and all now.” I shrug. “That’s about it. Went to a meeting. It was boring.”
“Yeah? I thought that since you’ve skipped a lot of them, it might have been good to get back.”
“Nah, it’s always about the same. You ever been to one?” I ask her.
“No.”
“Well, unless you’re the one tellin’ your story, it’s just listening to a lot of people telling their story, and their story ain’t much more different than yours.” I take another sip of espresso and manage to keep my burp quiet this time. “We all drank too much, we all fucked up our lives doin’ it.” I shrug. That’s about it. Not a lot to say about it, especially for me, and especially to someone who’s sober, you know, someone who’s never had the problem. ‘Cause if you don’t have the problem, you don’t really know what it’s like. And I could tell her. I could go into all kinds of detail, but she still wouldn’t really KNOW what it’s like to have the cravings, or the need, or how far a person’ll go to get that need met.
“Are there ever any inspirational speakers, or is it all just people who have had a problem with drinking?”
“There’s always a lecture.” Always. Sometimes it’s interesting, but most times it’s not.
“Maybe you should change groups,” she offers.
“I have. Twice. It’s all about the same. This group is a quiet one. I thought that would be better, you know? Not a lot of, of people like me.”
“Like you?”
“Celebrities.” God, that sounds so bad. I don’t know why, it’s the truth. But it just sounds like I’m braggin’ on myself. Shi doesn’t seem to mind, though.
“Really? See, now, I would have thought that you’d be more comfortable with people JUST like that. I thought that you all might have some problems that are unique.”
“Not so much, I guess. Maybe that what happens to us always ends up in some paper or magazine. That part of it is kinda unique, for sure. And if you fuck up, everyone in the world knows about it.”
“That must be difficult,” she says. And she says it so nice. Like she means it. Like maybe she understands that hell, yes, it’s difficult. And embarrassing. And humiliating. A lot of people think that having the world know about your problem is a big help, ‘cause you have all this ‘support’. It’s not support. It’s people watchin’ every move you make. It’s people making a comment if they see you in a bar, and they, they assume that you’re drinking something other than a Coke. It’s more pressure than your average alcoholic has, and they have enough of their own.
“Yeah, it sucks. You can’t do anything without people thinkin’ you’re doin’ something you shouldn’t be.” I laugh a little. “Some fans have no problem lettin’ ya know it, too.”
“Incredible. The pressure must be enormous.”
I look at Shi. I really look at her. She means it. I can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t know dick about me, but she gets it. Even people who DO know me, or, or, other friends I have who are sorta famous and shit, lots of times those people don’t get it at all.
“Y… y… yeah. It is.” Fuck it all, why do I have to stutter? With everything else in my fucking life that’s screwed up one way or another, why the hell do I have to have a stutter, too? Why?
“Do you ever lash out?” she asks me.
“N… n… not really. No.” No, I don’t. It would be career suicide for me. The Backstreet Boys were never about bein’ angry or even being slightly pissed off. We were about cuteness and seeming pure. I fucked that up with the drinking and drugs. I fucked that up big time, and if you want to talk about pressure, THAT’S pressure. So lashing out at this point would only hurt more than it would make me feel good.
I feel her hand on mine. I was playing with the place mat, pickin’ at a thread. And her hand just reached out and covered mine for a minute, gave it a squeeze.
“Maybe you should,” she says. Then she opens up a pack of cigarettes and offers me one without another word.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
