Read Online If Only You People Could Follow Directions: A Memoir by Jessica Hendry Nelson - Free Book Online Page B

narrow waist, his short, thin legs wrapped tightly in pale denim. The man yells to be heard above the music.
    “This drink is weak, sweetie!” he says.
    Jordan snatches the drink from across the bar. I imagine the chilled glass feeling good on his chapped lips. He swallows the rest of the lime-green concoction and grins.
    “No,” says Jordan, “it’s just fine.”
    The man says nothing. He watches Jordan bend for another bottle of Stoli, then lays a five-dollar bill on the counter and begins to write something at the top. Jordan pockets the money without noticing.
    “Well, he’s alive,” my mother says.
    We are huddled in a corner. For a moment, I think we are going to turn around, to scurry down those graffiti-laden stairs and step back out into the alley, relieved. This boy breaks hearts and I am afraid.
    The music is heavy techno, the sort of thing that my mother hates. She once told us that club music sounds like shrapnel hitting a rainbow. At the time, we laughed so hard Jordan spewed ginger ale from his nose. Now, I think she may have had a point. It feels like the music is trying to beat itself out inside me, to exhaust an energy I cannot contain. I haven’t been in a club for years. I feel world-weary and I’m only twenty-two. I look over and Jordan has spotted us, two ridiculous mother-hens tittering in a corner. He turns suddenly, like he hasn’t seen us, and begins to needlessly align the liquor bottles, turning them so that their labels face out. I see his hands shake. I see him wipe his nose with the bar towel. I see him muss with his hair, which is in a mohawk now, and take a deep breath. I know what these gestures signify—he isn’t done with the coke.
    “I’ve been meaning to call,” he says as we approach the bar.
    “Oh, please,” my mother says. “Make me a martini, will you?”
    Jordan fills a silver shaker with ice, retrieves the bottle of Grey Goose from its spot on the shelf, and pours for a long while. She must look older to him now. She’s put on weight; the freckles have grown darker and more pronounced. Lines have begun to wend their way across her face. I don’t know how I look. My hair is dark and swept up instead of long and blond. My clothes have gotten more tailored, I suppose, and less tight. I try to do a credible impression of a model citizen, the professional young woman, but I suspect he sees through all that. He pours me a glass of Malbec and leans over to kiss me on the cheek.
    “How’s Eric?” he says.
    “Back at home. Stable for the moment.”
    “You graduated?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    A man yells, his long-blond-haired head poking up from behind my mother’s shoulder, “What’s on draft?”
    Jordan pours a Budweiser and hands it to him.
    “Take this on the house,” he says. “All we got tonight, honey.”
    The man winks, hands him a twenty. My mother looks around, as if just now realizing that she’s out of her element. She begins to stare. I believe she thinks this is good for Jordan, better for him than her blue-shuttered suburban home, quiet neighborhood, and golden retriever. Nothing wrong with learning a little self-reliance . I know she’s not angry, even though she misses him, misses smoking cigarettes on the back porch and giggling like kids.
    Jordan works around us, answering questions in mumbles. Mom sits patiently, running her fingernail over breaks in the wood, turning her head to watch men kiss one another, intrigued. Jordan gives her pretzels and she nibbles through the whole bowl.
    “Did I get fat?” asks Jordan. But my mother doesn’t hear. “Mom! Did I get fatter?”
    She looks him up and down. “Thinner, if that’s possible,” she says.
    “You guys look great,” Jordan says. He bites at his thumb. “Do you hate me?”
    “I’m too old to hate,” my mother says.
    “Another drink?” We nod.
    He serves a few more drinks to other customers, sliding down the length of the bar, flipping bottles, pouring mini shots into plastic