On Becoming a Blur

I need to go on a bender. A good ol’ fashion three-day drunk. I want to barhop, hear live acoustic music, be by myself, talk to strangers, ignore strangers, and watch people from the security of a bar mirror. I want to pretend not to notice the pretties as they carry trays of food and drinks to the other people, as they mull over an especially tedious tab, as they talk amongst themselves, and sneak a smoke down a long hallway. I want to feel the cool blast of artificial air that circulates over some bars. I want to feel that sweat-inducing stillness and heart-racing closeness that you find in others. I want to go more than an hour without the knowledge that it’s about time to get back. I want to flirt and be flirted with. I want to bask in the moment when there is no flirtation, but a Woodford and a cold draught in front of me all night. I want to drink without the effects that are sure to follow. I want to participate in the ceremony of drink—it is one of the things I like best. I want to hear E. say, “Hey, Buddy…” and smile and stick his hand out for me to shake in the milliseconds before those drinks appear. I want to rearrange the drinks and their order in front of me. The draught goes on the coaster on the right. The Woodford to the left. I’ll taste the draught first and be nearly overcome by its iciness. The cold will coat my throat and ease into my chest, a tempering reverse of the whiskey to follow. I’ll wait three minutes. I’ll pick up the Woodford with my left hand, handle the rocks glass, and transfer it to my right. I’ll appreciate the smell first—kind of a singed caramel. I need to hear Irish music at Mulligan’s where I’ll have a moderately cooled Harp and warm Jameson. Perhaps a half-hour of chatter up the street at the Beer Sellar—watch the punks shoot pool and the beautiful women in the booths. Maybe I’ll head to the Saucer where I’ll be disappointed but will have a beer or two regardless. I’ll go to the Station Inn for some Bluegrass—maybe Gillian Welch and David Rawlings will make an impromptu appearance. I’ll circle back to the Ryman and drink from my flask on the front steps. And then on my three-day bender, I’ll go to the dozens of bars and haunts I’ve somehow missed since moving here. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the perfect one. The one that reminds me of home. The one where the bartenders always call me by name, always know what I’m drinking, always know whether I want to talk or be left entirely alone. The one where the jukebox plays songs like Act Naturally, Well Alright, Rocky Raccoon, and everything John Prine ever sang. For a price, I’ll sit there and think I’ve discovered my personal soundtrack. Yeah, a bender will at least mask what ails you and I’m ready for some masking. I wouldn’t mind just a little time to be a selfish prick. A little time to pretend that Jeeps never need repairs; that central air units run forever; that bank accounts are never over-extended and funds are limitless; that a man can disappear, or become a blur and shelve his responsibilities without anyone getting hurt.

Just a little time. I’d come back, I promise I would.