Read Online My Heart Is an Idiot: Essays by Davy Rothbart - Free Book Online
Authors: Davy Rothbart
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improbably—almost unbelievably—become perfectly aligned.
Our whole crew stood in a crushed knot against the bar. Lauren ducked under and popped up on the far side. “What’ll it be?” she shouted, spreading out a constellation of shot glasses.
“It’s Vernon’s night,” said Chris.
Vernon peered around, the tallest of us, soaking it all in, like an ancient willow admiring an orchard of saplings. “Knob Creek!” he declared.
Lauren found the bottle and poured nine Knob Creeks, plus a shot of Dr Pepper for Mrs. Liu, who asked for root beer instead, and, at Kandy’s request, a shot of Molson Ice. As Lauren passed them out, I saw Greg, the bouncer, waddling quickly in our direction. I had the gut-shot feeling that everything was about to go from wildly festive to ferociously violent in the next several seconds. But instead, Greg howled, “Let me get in on that!”
Lauren saw the confusion in my face. “Greg loves to be a badass,” she said, “but he’s just a big softie. He goes to those Renaissance fairs. He swings swords around and wears dresses!”
“They’re called kilts!” Greg bellowed, grumpy and happy at the same time. Lauren handed him a shot of whiskey; in his massive paw it looked the size of a thimble.
Lauren slipped under the bar again and pressed herself against me. We all raised our glasses, mashed tightly together, and looked around at each other, everyone’s face filled with a golden glow. Darla and Vernon had their arms around each other, as did Anthony and Kandy, and Chris and Shawn Henderson, and Mr. Liu, Mrs. Liu, and Mary. I put my arm around Lauren’s waist and pulled her close.
Later in the night, much later, I ended up telling Lauren that I loved her, and she told me she loved me, too. And the next afternoon, when we woke up, hung over but in fine spirits, we went for the walk I’d fantasized about, through a city transformed by almost two feet of snow. Every tree, every bush, every fire hydrant, and every garbage can was laced with soft, gentle beauty, like we’d crossed through a portal into some distant, magic land. In a few weeks, of course, Lauren Hill was no longer with me, she was with that dude named Darrell, the other bartender at Freighter’s, and Mr. Liu’s restaurant, I learned, went out of business just a few months after that. Vernon made it to late summer, Darla told me later, then he simply lay down on a park bench in Little Rock and died. But don’t you see, none of that mattered, none of that mattered, none of that mattered. Because you can take away Lauren Hill, you can take away the love we had for each other, but you can’t take away the feeling I had that night at midnight, as I squeezed her hand and looked around at my new, glorious tangle of friends, letting my eyes briefly catch their eyes and linger on each of their faces, the whiskey in each shot glass sparkling like a supernova. If there’s ever been a happier moment in my life, I can’t remember it.
“To Vernon!” I cried at last.
“To Vernon!” they shouted in chorus.
The Knob Creek went down like a furious, molten potion. I turned and looked down at Lauren. She was smiling up at me, sweet, soulful, and open.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said.
And we kissed.
WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?
Late one cold wet November night a few years ago, maybe three a.m., I was sitting on my bed in a Motel 6 just south of Austin, Texas, brushing my teeth and watching the closing moments of a college basketball game on ESPN2 that had been played earlier that night but was being rebroadcast and whose outcome was still a mystery to me, when the phone on the night table beside me jangled to life.
Who could possibly be calling? Nobody knew I was there; I’d arrived only an hour earlier. It had to be the old Pakistani guy down in the motel office, I figured, or else my little brother, Peter, who I was traveling with; he’d gone out walking down the I-35
Our whole crew stood in a crushed knot against the bar. Lauren ducked under and popped up on the far side. “What’ll it be?” she shouted, spreading out a constellation of shot glasses.
“It’s Vernon’s night,” said Chris.
Vernon peered around, the tallest of us, soaking it all in, like an ancient willow admiring an orchard of saplings. “Knob Creek!” he declared.
Lauren found the bottle and poured nine Knob Creeks, plus a shot of Dr Pepper for Mrs. Liu, who asked for root beer instead, and, at Kandy’s request, a shot of Molson Ice. As Lauren passed them out, I saw Greg, the bouncer, waddling quickly in our direction. I had the gut-shot feeling that everything was about to go from wildly festive to ferociously violent in the next several seconds. But instead, Greg howled, “Let me get in on that!”
Lauren saw the confusion in my face. “Greg loves to be a badass,” she said, “but he’s just a big softie. He goes to those Renaissance fairs. He swings swords around and wears dresses!”
“They’re called kilts!” Greg bellowed, grumpy and happy at the same time. Lauren handed him a shot of whiskey; in his massive paw it looked the size of a thimble.
Lauren slipped under the bar again and pressed herself against me. We all raised our glasses, mashed tightly together, and looked around at each other, everyone’s face filled with a golden glow. Darla and Vernon had their arms around each other, as did Anthony and Kandy, and Chris and Shawn Henderson, and Mr. Liu, Mrs. Liu, and Mary. I put my arm around Lauren’s waist and pulled her close.
Later in the night, much later, I ended up telling Lauren that I loved her, and she told me she loved me, too. And the next afternoon, when we woke up, hung over but in fine spirits, we went for the walk I’d fantasized about, through a city transformed by almost two feet of snow. Every tree, every bush, every fire hydrant, and every garbage can was laced with soft, gentle beauty, like we’d crossed through a portal into some distant, magic land. In a few weeks, of course, Lauren Hill was no longer with me, she was with that dude named Darrell, the other bartender at Freighter’s, and Mr. Liu’s restaurant, I learned, went out of business just a few months after that. Vernon made it to late summer, Darla told me later, then he simply lay down on a park bench in Little Rock and died. But don’t you see, none of that mattered, none of that mattered, none of that mattered. Because you can take away Lauren Hill, you can take away the love we had for each other, but you can’t take away the feeling I had that night at midnight, as I squeezed her hand and looked around at my new, glorious tangle of friends, letting my eyes briefly catch their eyes and linger on each of their faces, the whiskey in each shot glass sparkling like a supernova. If there’s ever been a happier moment in my life, I can’t remember it.
“To Vernon!” I cried at last.
“To Vernon!” they shouted in chorus.
The Knob Creek went down like a furious, molten potion. I turned and looked down at Lauren. She was smiling up at me, sweet, soulful, and open.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said.
And we kissed.
WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?
Late one cold wet November night a few years ago, maybe three a.m., I was sitting on my bed in a Motel 6 just south of Austin, Texas, brushing my teeth and watching the closing moments of a college basketball game on ESPN2 that had been played earlier that night but was being rebroadcast and whose outcome was still a mystery to me, when the phone on the night table beside me jangled to life.
Who could possibly be calling? Nobody knew I was there; I’d arrived only an hour earlier. It had to be the old Pakistani guy down in the motel office, I figured, or else my little brother, Peter, who I was traveling with; he’d gone out walking down the I-35
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