First Course

Once invitations have been sent, it's difficult to cancel. It's one of those few times you need to pick up a phone and call. No email. No text. No message posted on your favorite forum. Not even a follow-up invitation retracting the initial invite. No, you need to make a call. This is why parties are rarely cancelled. Today people will go to great lengths not to have to make a call.

It was Sara's idea. Since moving to the Upper West Side, we've lost touch with our friends. Our friends having children, demanding jobs, and recreational heroin addictions had nothing to do with this; no, it was apparently our move Uptown that built this imaginary wall. Studies show that fifty percent of all Americans wish they lived someplace else; however, this percentage decreases greatly when polling only Manhattan. I suspect there is a slight increase in this percentage when the focus is strictly the Upper West Side neighborhood of Manhattan.

At this moment I am standing on our dining room table, attempting to hang a chandelier from the ceiling. A task I fully expect to fail at and would typically hire someone had it not been decided at 10 pm last night that it's required for our party this evening. If the chandelier is not installed and working, we'll need to place phone calls, cancelling the party. We don't want to make phone calls. I have removed the previous light, a curved hanging fixture that provided adequate light the past four years. Now, I'm feeding the new wire through the top, holding the chandelier carefully. I don't want to knock off any of the hanging crystals I just spent my morning assembling. The chandelier is now loosely placed in the opening. I will tighten, once the power has been tested. Standing back, I look up and notice the light is not centered over the table. This is going to be a problem.

The invitation for our party reads HAPPY HOUR, but it really is just a dinner party for a few close friends. After much discussion, Sara and I felt dinner party sounded old and boring; happy hour insinuates good times and catching up with those we were once close to. It also means cocktails will be served. One couple, Josh and Katherine, have twelve- and five-year-old daughters. Beatrice, a friend of Sara's from college, has already been married and divorced. Not sure old and boring can be avoided. I don't know. Essentially we will be sitting down to a catered dinner from an Italian restaurant a block from our apartment. We are hosting a dinner party disguised as a happy hour. There will be many cocktails.

I turn on the power then jump up back onto the table to connect the chandelier wire to the power input in the ceiling. As I move my hand into the ceiling, I think about how I wired the lamp, and for a moment am proud I was able to accomplish this task. It takes approximately two seconds for the wires to touch and cause Fourth of July raining down on me, knocking me on my back, spread out on the table. The chandelier comes crashing down; most of the crystals have fallen off. The wires were crossed. As expected, I have failed and will need to start over. Putting the crystals back into place, I know the light not centered over the table is going to be a problem.

Years ago, when living downtown, Sara and I would stay up all night talking about the future. This week we spent three days not talking because I said the couch in the living room made it look like we were trying too hard. I turn on the radio and walk over to our corner table that serves as a bar for my various bottles of vodka. I grab a glass from the shelf, walk to the kitchen, put a couple of ice cubes into the glass, then go back to the makeshift bar and pour a double vodka drink. I listen to the radio.

You are listening to the Night Rider during the day on KISS FM. Up next is Phil Collins's "Easy Lover" followed by Tina Turner's "Private Dancer."

The move to the Upper West was a calculated one that didn't pan out. The plan was to get pregnant and have more space for the children. After two years of trying, it was too much and we gave up. During the past few months, we have come to an understanding that children are not on our horizon. As Sara put it, the stress of the whole situation has put us into a rut; our only option is to bring friends back into our lives, our lives of apparent disarray. I finish my vodka and get back on the table, round two of connecting the chandelier. Connecting the wires correctly, I think about my novel, my unfinished manuscript I have been working on for many years. A poet tells the story of a friend, a serial killer terrorizing the streets of New York. Someday I am going to finish it.

Last night I had two dreams. The first was Sara and I on a date, at a movie. At the end of the movie, Sara insisted on sitting through the credits. I kept saying, "It's on the internet," but she continued until the screen was blank and lights came on. I woke up in a sweat. The second dream was Sara and I in the bathroom, staring at a pregnancy test that was showing a positive reading. We were both very happy. When I woke up, I woke Sara and she opened her eyes. I was relieved it was only a dream.

Sara calls and asks me how many people are needed to consider a sexual encounter an orgy, then asks about the chandelier. I don't have a clear answer for her on either question, so she hangs up.

With the chandelier finally in place and working (still not centered, though) I realize it's already almost 1 pm and I need to go to the liquor store. First I pour a vodka drink and listen to The Clash's "London Calling" on the radio.

* * *

Beatrice is holding beige towels in her hand at Bed Bath and Beyond.

"How many people have to be involved for a sexual encounter to be considered an orgy?" she asks Sara.

Sara is visually scoping out the customers in the linens area, then looks down at the towels Beatrice is holding. "No beige. Will hates beige." Sara moves toward the black towels. "I don't know. Ten, a dozen? I'd say at least ten are needed to make it an orgy." She pauses. "Why are you asking?"

"Don't know, just curious what your thoughts were."

Sara looks at the black towels. "Too black?"

Beatrice's question gives Sara a reason to call Will and ask about the chandelier. He does not have a clear answer on either.

Beatrice reaches for charcoal colored towels. "Ten is too high. That's more like a cult, Charles Manson type shit."

"Those will have to do." Sara grabs a dozen of the charcoal towels. "In that case, what are you saying, three constitutes an orgy?"

"No, three is just a threesome, or what is it? A ménage a trois?" Beatrice points straight ahead. "Over there, there are the wine glasses." They pass three consecutive couples holding hands. "When am I going to find a man?"

Sara looks back at Beatrice, who is following her through the narrow aisles. "Jack is bringing Donny. I think you'll like him. He's like you, normal, just looking for someone." She stops and thinks for a moment. "Looking in all the wrong places, like you."

Beatrice smiles at a guy wearing a fedora then turns back to Sara and laughs. "Hey, I'm not that bad. Did you know that LASER FM is running a contest right now for women who want to sleep with technology geeks?" This stops Sara again. She looks back. "Yeah, if you're the tenth caller, you win a date and a laptop. See, I'm not that desperate."

They both grab a box of six wine glasses and place them into the cart, next to the towels. Beatrice is pulling down her shirt, just above her nipples. "Sara, let's go get tattoos on our breasts!"

"Sure, why not?" Sara is pushing the cart toward the checkout.

Beatrice grabs her from behind. "I mean today."

"No." Sara adds, "I have an apartment to clean and get ready for this party."

Beatrice makes a pouty face. "Oh, fuck your party. What, one single guy will be there?"

"True, but it's Donny. I really think you guys are going to hit it off."

"Let me guess, we have seat assignments next to each other, right?" Beatrice stares at Sara, who doesn't speak. "Shit, this is a dinner party. How fucking old are we!"

The woman checking out the two at the counter is eavesdropping on their conversation.

Beatrice looks at her and asks, "How many people are needed for a sexual encounter to be considered an orgy?"

* * *

Vodka is easy. I grab two bottles of Ketel One and one bottle of Smirnoff for late night mixers. In the background, 92.9 THE WAR is playing through the speakers.

You just heard Slayer, "South of Heaven." Next up is off Metallica's self-titled album, "Enter Sandman."

A man notices me make a face when I hear this; bands with self-titled albums that are not their first album frustrates me.

I'm standing in front of a wall of wine. There will be eight of us, so I grab three bottles of Pinot Noir, two Cabernets, and two bottles of Shiraz. I find a cart to put all of the bottles in and then for the unadventurous grab two bottles of Chardonnay.

My phone rings. I don't even look at who is calling, assuming it is Sara, who just got home and wants to discuss the chandelier. I am relieved when I answer and it's Jack. He's in the city already, just dropped Tina off for shopping, and is on his way to pick up Donny. "We're going to have some pre-happy hour cocktails. You in?"

"No," I say reluctantly, but looking forward to seeing them tonight. Jack says something else, but the music in his car is too loud to make out what he's saying.

I look at my watch, almost 3 pm, still need to get home and shower, trim nails, shave, moisturize, trim sideburns, brush teeth, comb hair and change into my dinner party attire. Sometimes I feel like maintenance takes up most of my day.

There are mini tequila bottles at the checkout counter. As my vodka and wine is being scanned, I grab two, have the clerk scan them, and then place them in my front shirt pocket. The bottles are placed into three bags that luckily I am able to carry with one hand, leaving the other free to enjoy my impulse tequila purchase.

Halfway home, my phone is buzzing. I put down the bags and answer. Sara. She wants to know why the chandelier isn't centered.

 

Second Course

"I want the hawk, the one right there." Donny is pointing to a wall of tattoo art.

Jack has already taken a seat; the tattoo artist is rolling up his sleeve. "Cool." I'm getting a tiger head biting a guitar in his mouth. "Rock and roll!" A second artist wearing a shirt with a name patch that reads "SUVI" comes in and motions for Donny to grab a seat. He is still pointing to the hawk, but it doesn't matter.

"I knew what you wanted the moment you walked in," Suvi says.

Just the four of them on a Saturday afternoon in a place called S&M Tattoos in the West Village. A pit stop, as Jack put it, before some pre-happy hour drinks. Illegally parking his car out front, Jack told Donny not to worry. "No one fucks with a yellow Ferrari with a flaming devil on the side. It's one of a kind, and people appreciate a one of a kind automobile."

The first artist compliments Jack on his right arm, which is mostly covered by tattoos, then says his name is Frank, but all his customers call him Frankie. Suvi goes into the back room and comes back with an eighties-style boombox, places a cassette inside, and pushes play. Jack identifies the music as The Dead Kennedys. He moves his head to the music while keeping his arm perfectly still.

"Where you guys from?" Frankie asks.

Jack stops his head for a moment. "Long Island for me," then nods over at Donny, "he lives in Tribeca." Frankie looks over at Donny, then back to Jack. "He needs more tatts."

"That's why we're here, Frankie. Some fresh ink for Saturday night."

"What do you think about this happy hour party, anyway?" Donny yells, despite being only a few feet away.

Jack looks at the design drawn by Frankie, nods approvingly. "It should be cool. There's a girl named Beatrice. She's single. You two might hit it off. At least that's what Will thinks."

"Okay, I don't know Will that well, but…" Jack cuts him off.

"But he knows me and knows my friends. Besides, you guys met that one night, at the strip club."

Donny looks up at the ceiling. "Oh yeah, Lace. I remember. Didn't we see Bruce Springsteen there that night?"

"No, but that would be pretty cool." Jack laughs, then grimaces as Frankie digs in. He then continues yelling back to Donny, "Who would be the coolest person to see in a strip club?"

"Michael Jordan? No, Dennis Rodman? Yeah, that would be pretty cool." Donny lets this hang with no response. "You think?"

"How about Mick Jagger? Having a Rolling Stone kicking it at the table next to us would be pretty crazy, man.

Suvi jumps in. "What about Mike Tyson?" Talk about a dude that could tear up a joint.

Frankie takes a step back, looking at Jack's arm. "Almost done with the tiger, next is the guitar." He turns his back and yells, "George Clooney. That's what you want, the guy who brings the party with him."

An hour later, both walk out into the sunlight on a new tattoo high. As expected, the Ferrari is fine. "Let's get a drink." Jack passes Donny and leads him into a bar.

Jack and Will were roommates for three years in college at NYU. Will studied English literature while Jack was a music major. A major he made up himself that incorporated only classes he was interested in. After four years, he was not even close to graduating due to the lack of general academic credits; however, he felt he had gotten a full education, filling his schedule with art and music classes. It was during the second semester Jack really bonded with Will. One night they went out and got really crooked on Wild Turkey, drinking almost a full bottle each. Jack hooked up with a girl named Amber and went to her dorm. Will went home. Around 4 am Will got the call from Jack. During his drunken sleep he had taken a shit in the bed. He was nude and the mess had spread. Amber was still sleeping. It was Will that gave him the advice of writing a note and leaving immediately. The note said simply: YOU DISGUST ME. Friends for life after the night Jack shit in Amber's bed. After college, Jack started his first band: Jack Walker and the Booze Hounds. Despite playing mostly covers, Jack's guitar skills got noticed and soon he found himself with a real rock band, writing real music, playing real venues. Last week he put out his third album. The name of the band is: HARD AS A ROCK. Their first single, "Jungle Baby," is currently number 87 on the Billboard top 100 rankings and people are beginning to take notice. They even have a couple groupies. The hottest one, Tina, is Jack's current girlfriend. Due to the band's latest taste of success, their record label gave them an advance on their next album. Jack spent every penny on a Ferrari.

"I'll have a margarita," Donny says, then looks over at Jack, who puts up the peace sign. "Make it two," he tells the bartender, who is staring at their bloodstained bandages. "So tell me about Beatrice."

"I don't know her," Jack says as he takes a swig of his drink, a couple of drops dripping down his chin. "She's apparently divorced, so that's cool, I guess."

Donny drinks down half his margarita in one drink. "Maybe we can find some other girls to bring." He looks around. "Not here, though."

"No shit," Jack laughs. "We have a couple hours. What do you suggest?"

Donny smiles. "The Back Room."

"Isn't that a gay bar?" Jack finishes his drink.

"Yes, it is." Donny enjoys the moment of confusion on Jack's face, then says, "But a lot of girls go there for the ambience, and there's not a lot of guys to choose from."

"No more margaritas, though. I'm staying on vodka." Donny nods so Jack says, "Cool, let's do it, but none for me, I'm picking up Tina on the way." He considers his statement, then adds, "Maybe just one more."

They walk from the sunlight of outside to the dark hazy interior of The Back Room. Jack heads directly to the bar, finding a place to sit by himself. His aura is pretty clear: Stay away, I'm here to drink. Donny notices a couple of girls at the end of the bar; he makes his way over.

Donny, a New York transplant from the suburbs of Atlanta, moved to Manhattan when he was twenty for school, though he never went. Instead, he took a job as a club manager assistant; twelve years later he was managing his own club in the Little West 12th street. It was decent money, great hours for a night owl, and he was able to meet a lot of the wrong women, the type that Donny was attracted to. Bouncing back and forth between committed and non-committed relationships during his twelve years in the city, Donny was directly or indirectly connected to three abortions and two miscarriages.

Swallowing his second double vodka drink, Jack is watching Donny with the two girls across the bar. For a second he is jealous, then he sees one of the girls pull a knife. The second punches Donny right in the face, causing him to trip over a bar stool and fall flat on his back. Gasping for air, he is pulled out of the bar by a bouncer-type bartender. By the time Jack gets off his stool and into the street, the bartender is gone. In broad daylight, Donny is sitting in the street, his nose bleeding onto his shirt.

Donny is holding his nose, trying to stop the blood from pouring out. "Lesbians. I forgot about lesbians."

Jack calls Tina and tells her it's time; they're going to pick her up and head to the happy hour.

Donny cracks the window, listening to the Ferrari purr up Madison Avenue as he wipes some excess blood seeping from his nose. "So why is it called a happy hour anyway?"

"Don't know. I guess because Will likes vodka."

"Sounds like an orgy to me."

Third Course

Sara and I are in the kitchen. The past twenty minutes have been spent in the living room area, staring up at the chandelier. "It's totally on the right side of the table," Sara says. She's right, but there's nothing that can be done to correct this problem. Eventually she shakes her head and moves on. I turn on the radio and there are two minutes of commercials. Sara walks over and changes the station.

That was "Lonesome Cowboy" by the Small Town Boys. Next up is "Fire in My Backyard."

"Ketchup! We need ketchup!" Sara is yelling.

I walk over to the refrigerator. "We're having chicken and pasta. Is ketchup really necessary?" Waiting for her response, I wonder if there's time to go over to the bar and pour myself a double vodka.

"People put ketchup on everything!" She is still yelling.

I move around a couple of wine bottles and find a bottle of Hunts ketchup, Heinz's frisky cousin. I bring this over to show Sara and she begins to calm down. We move forward.

Josh and Katherine are the first to show up. Katherine is holding a bottle of red wine; Josh has a bottle of Skyy vodka. I welcome them in.

For many years Sara and I were downtown neighbors with Josh and Katherine. We were on Rector Street; they were around the corner, on Greenwich Street. Most weekends (and most Thursdays, some Tuesdays) we would all be out together. Restaurants, movies, and bars were our scene. As a group, late nights and laughs were our calling card. One night Katherine and I found ourselves very drunk and alone (Josh and Sara were passed out). Next we found ourselves naked and in bed. The next day I confessed to Josh; he took it as well as possible (Josh was more embarrassed about his low tolerance) and forgave my moment of weakness. I always meant to mention this night to Sara, but as time went on, Josh and Katherine had kids and many years passed. Now living in Queens, it has been two years since we have seen them last.

"How was the trip?" I ask, expecting an exhaustive tale of transfers and broken down trains.

Josh is all smiles. "It was great. Hop on the 7 to Times Square then take the 2 train up. No problems."

Katherine goes into the kitchen to help Sara wait for the catered food. I pour two double vodkas, hand one over to Josh.

Josh reaches into his pocket, pulling out a gold coin that has 12 MONTHS stamped on it. "No thanks. I'm in the program, twelve months sober."

I quickly retract the vodka. "Well, good for you." We stand in silence for a couple minutes. "Amazing what you'll do for kids. A lot of sacrifice, but I expect it's worth it."

Josh smiles, staring at me each time I take a drink. "Sure, but it wasn't the kids." Josh pauses and moves closer, even though we're the only ones within earshot. "I did time."

"Time?" I take a big drink. "I'm not following."

"I was in prison. You know, the big house."

There's another pause. I wonder if I'm supposed to ask, then Josh says, "One night I drank two bottles of vodka and cut a guy with a broken bottle."

"You went to prison for that?"

Josh looks around, spots a bottle of water on the table, grabs it and takes a drink. "When you cut someone and they end up in a coma, you do. Six months."

"Shit," is all I can think to say. I really want to ask him if he wants to sneak a drink. I decide to change the subject. "How are the kids?"

"They're good. Growing up, you know." Josh picks at his ear. "Becky, my oldest, is into shredding."

I laugh. "Is it a rock band?" I drain my drink. "Jack's coming over; maybe he'll have some pointers you can pass along to her."

"No, I mean shredding, like cutting herself." Josh holds his head down, "I think we used to call them cutters."

I haven't seen his daughter in over five years, maybe closer to seven. Now, twelve years old, she's a cutter? I thought only hot teenage girls were cutters. Luckily our discussion stops by a knock at the door. Beatrice is standing there. She brought flowers, but no liquor. I wait for her to pull a coin out of her pocket, but this doesn't happen.

Beatrice looks around. "Where's Donny?"

"Not here yet. The girls are in the kitchen." I point even though she has been in our apartment many times. "Thanks for the flowers."

"Yeah, whatever."

The three girls come into the living room with a really large cheese tray. It takes two to bring it in, having to angle it to get through the doorway from the kitchen into the living room. Sara points out the chandelier to Katherine and Beatrice. "See, it's way over to this side, not even close to being centered."

Josh quickly grabs a piece of cheese and eats it with two hands. When he eats like this, he looks a little bit like a rat. I also just notice the beige tie he is wearing. Not a good look for Josh. Not a good look for anyone. I pour double vodka. The girls fill up their now-empty glasses with wine.

The door opens without a knock. Jack busts in followed by Donny and Tina. He bypasses the girls and gives me a big bear hug; when he lets go, I have blood on my shirt.

"Sorry, man. From the new ink." Jack points to a bandage on his arm that is leaking blood out of the sides.

Donny comes up. He's bleeding from the nose and also looks to have blood oozing from the bandage on his arm. Donny is holding a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. I point him to the bathroom to take care of his nose and quickly open the vodka, pouring doubles for Jack and Donny. I offer wine to Tina, but she shakes her head, instead pointing to the vodka. "It's happy hour, bitches. Rock and roll."

Jack and I babble, as we rarely have an actual conversation. Our vodkas disappear quickly, so I refill our glasses and work my way over to the radio. I turn on 89.4, The Smooth. A piano solo ends.

That was Miles Davis, off the Birth of Cool album. Stay with me, brothers and sisters. We are going to be "Riding the Trane"—Coltrane, that is.

The food is on the way, so it's time for seat assignments. Josh is next to Katherine who is next to Sara, which is next to my place. Jack is next to me, Tina is next to him, followed by Donny and Beatrice. The singles are strategically positioned around the table. After death, do we all start single again?

The food arrives. It is brought momentarily into the kitchen, where the chicken and pasta is moved from plastic containers onto large china serving plates. Sara and Beatrice bring out the plates, placing them on the center of the table. Sara stops next to Tina, whispering into her ear. Tina looks up at the chandelier and nods, but I'm not sure she understands because she's already looking pretty drunk. I grab a bottle of vodka and walk around the table, freshening up the drinks. The conversation I dread begins with Josh.

"So Will, did you ever finish your novel, the one about the priest wrongly convicted of murder?"

I offer more water to Josh; he shakes his head. "No, not yet. A couple of edits left, but it's getting close."

"I thought the novel was about a group of strippers that find a dead body?" Jack puts up his glass as I approach, motioning with three fingers, which means make it a triple.

Sara has brought all of the food in. She catches the end of the conversation. "You mean the novel about Mexico City?"

Unfortunately, they are all right. At one point or another, it has been about all the above. Now, it's the story of a poet, telling the tale of a serial killer through verse. I'm ready to begin my long defense of the difficulties about writing a novel when Beatrice comes to the rescue. "You should put something about orgies in your book. By the way, does anyone know how many people it takes to make an orgy?"

Everyone looks at each other, hoping someone may have the right answer. As if we are playing poker, each player at the table is checking to their left. No one says or does anything. Finally Jack lifts his glass. "Fuck it. Let's eat."

Someone has apparently changed the radio.

Right now it's time for The Doors triple play. Identify all of the songs, call in, and you win tickets to see The Doors cover band, Break On Through, playing at B.B. King's next Friday.

I assume we're about to hear "Light My Fire," "Riders On The Storm," and "L.A. Woman." Once I figure this out I tune out the music.

"Here, here," says Donny, lifting his glass, which is somehow already empty. I attempt to get up, but he motions for me to stay down. Donny walks over to the bar, grabs a fresh bottle, and brings it to the table. "Let's just keep this right here." He places the bottle in front of him, then motions to Josh. "Would you like a drink?"

Jack raises his glass as if to make a toast, but since everyone is scrambling, he forgets about it and just begins drinking his vodka.

"I would." Tina grabs the bottle, then fills up Jack's glass. "Did you guys hear about Jack's latest single? It's climbing the charts." She smiles at Jack. "He's going to be famous. We'll see him on Behind the Music."

I go for the bottle, which is already half gone. "Let's hope not. Those people are usually wrecked."

"Exactly," Jack says. "Wrecked and famous. Let's hope that's me!"

Donny stands up and begins dancing as if he were Jim Morrison, with his back to the table. Jack completely ignores this. "Listen to this—I've been getting into poetry. Do you guys want to hear?"

Predictably, everyone nods.

"Cool, here it is: The walls are closing in, The screams drawing near, We are all on fire, The end is here."

Tina looks at him and smiles. "That's beautiful, baby." She kisses him.

Donny and I both reach for the vodka; I let him take the bottle. "No, Will. Your house, your vodka." He's got a point. I pour a triple. Donny is still next to the table, dancing.

Donny and Jack are finished, so Sara grabs their plates and heads for the kitchen. Josh pops up out of his chair. "I'll give you a hand, Sara."

Despite the fact the food is hardly eaten, everyone pushes their plates away. Jack and I go over to the radio to find a rock station. In the kitchen, Josh confronts Sara about the affair; he is still not able to get over it, asking her if she still held my actions against me. Of course, this is the first she has ever heard of the one-night mistake Josh is referring to as an affair.

Beatrice asks if she can smoke in our apartment. I tell her no, leading to a five-minute rant on how she can't smoke anywhere anymore.

I have just finished my triple vodka when I see Sara pop her head out of the kitchen. I can tell right away what has happened. Josh follows, unable to look my way. What a rat. I quickly make my way toward Sara. This way if she throws something she'll hit me and not one or many of our guests. I explain it was one night, thirteen years ago, and that I have been faithful since. Sara slams the rest of her wine, and then throws the glass at my head, missing, shattering off the wall. She races for the living room, freezing when she gets there. I'm right behind her.

You just heard Great White's "Once Bitten, Twice Shy." Now let's all bang our heads to "Lick it Up" by Kiss.

Josh must have told Katherine what he told Sara because she was really pissed off, yelling something at Josh, hard to make out over the music. Josh grabs the bottle of vodka, fixes himself a drink. Katherine is crying. She gets up from the table and leaves. Josh drains his glass then pours himself a double vodka.

Jack and Donny pull off their tattoo bandages to take a look at their new ink. They're still bleeding; some blood gets on the table. Jack playfully punches at Donny, catching his nose, which starts to gush blood . And I think about Josh's daughters at home cutting themselves.

Katherine continues to cry. Donny is dancing, blood splattering around the apartment. Jack continues to recite poetry. Josh is drinking.

Beatrice lights up a cigarette and then calls the liquor store to have more vodka delivered.

Dessert is served.

If this was your last dinner, how would you want this to end?

Sara screams, "I'M PREGNANT!"

Fourth Course

"That was fucked up!" Jack says to Tina as they merge onto the FDR.

Tina shifts in her seat and then opens the ashtray, where a pack of cigarettes is resting. "No shit. Let's stop off in Brooklyn and get a drink."

Jack pulls on to a side street, near Smith Street. There is an RV parked ahead of them. As they get out of Jack's car, it looks funny having the Ferrari next to the RV. "You know the problem with those?" Jack points at the RV, answering before Tina is allowed to speak. "Anytime you want to get a six pack, you have to drive the RV." Jack laughs at this for a while. Tina walks by herself toward a bar named Simple Times.

Inside, they order double vodkas (bartender wouldn't serve triples), drink them down, and then order another round. Tina embraces Jack from his side. "I'm so proud of you. You're going to be a huge rock star," she slurs as she rests her head on his shoulder.

"That's not important, but it would be nice." Jack takes a drink of vodka, glad he will never have to be the guy hanging Christmas decorations at Office Max.

The bartender starts ringing a bell and then hits a switch that turns Christmas lights on throughout the bar. Out of nowhere, a woman is walking around with free Kamikaze shots. Jack grabs four, handing two to Tina.

"Maybe they're celebrating because you're here," Tina says as she takes down one of the Kamikaze shots.

The bartender overhears this, leans in and grabs Jack so he can get a good look at him. "Are you somebody?"

Back in the car, Jack is turning onto the Long Island Expressway. Tina turns on the car stereo; she turns the tuner right and left, finally settling on Classic Rock 104.

It's a Stones two-fer treat for all of you rockers out there. Coming up is "Wild Horses," but right now here is "Sympathy for the Devil."

The Ferrari passes a billboard for Taco Bell. "Man, I'm starving. Wish we had some tacos," Tina says.

"Yeah, like gorditas. You know, the mega-tacos that combine hard-shell tacos, soft-shell tacos, and burritos. All in one, that's a lot of taco. It's really amazing."

Tina turns up the radio, the Stones, as she lights a cigarette and rolls down her window. Smoke and The Rolling Stones blare out the window into the night.

Deep in thought over gorditas, Jack doesn't even see the turn ahead.

Fifth Course

After walking fifteen blocks, Josh grabs Katherine. "Let's just go in here." He points to a bar named The Fishing Hole. Katherine stares at him with an expression that's somewhere between disappointed and disgusted . "Don't worry; I'm not going to drink anymore," Josh says. Katherine's expression turns to disgusted.

Katherine walks up to the bar and orders a glass of wine. Josh grabs a table near the window, away from the bar. Josh is fixated on a man on the sidewalk drinking a beer out of a brown paper bag. He's pretty sure he remembers him from a meeting. Katherine sits down. Josh turns to her.

"Why?" asks Katherine.

Josh hangs his head down. "I don't know. I guess I just can't get over it. You and Will? Ugh, I just can't get over it, I guess."

"It's been thirteen years! Why now?"

Josh looks at Katherine as she takes a drink of wine. "I guess ever since I've been, you know, in the program, I've started to realize things."

Katherine takes another drink of her wine. "Well, I'm sorry. Again, it was a long time ago."

"That's the strange thing," Josh says." He pauses as the bartender brings over another glass of wine. "About six months before your affair with Will."

Katherine slams down her empty glass. "It was not an affair, Josh, it was one damn night!"

"Anyway, what I was going to say was." Josh pauses. Katherine takes a drink of her new glass of wine. "What I wanted to say, was that six months prior to." Another pause. "Your night with Will, well, I had a night, as you say, with Sara."

"No, you didn't." Katherine laughs, and then drinks more wine.

Josh holds out his hands. "Actually it's true, and that's what is so perplexing to me. Here we are, thirteen-plus years later, two kids, we both cheated on each other, many years ago, and I still can't get over it."

Katherine finishes off her wine, motions to the bartender for one more glass. "So now what?" she says, watching the bartender pour the wine.

Josh sits in silence. Katherine's wine is delivered. Josh puts his hands on the table. "I can't do this anymore. I'm leaving."

Josh walks out of the bar.

The bartender brings over her glass of wine. "Is everything okay?"

Katherine looks at her wine, and then looks out onto the sidewalk. She watches a man drinking a beer out of a brown paper bag. "Yes, everything is okay."

Sixth Course

"32nd and 8th," Donny says while walking. "I think it's called Joe's Deli. Anyway, the best sandwiches."

Beatrice pushes him to the side. "No, there's a place on 43rd and 9th, it's called something like, I don't know, it just says DELI in big letters!" She looks at Donny. "Now they'll take your sandwich challenge anytime." She pauses. "And they'll kick your Jones place's ass." The delis, the 24-hour access to anything you need; a common discussion point for proud New Yorkers.

It had turned into one of those beautiful Manhattan nights. Chairs and tables from overflowing restaurants spilling into the streets. Outside the pubs, groups growing large; smoking and laughing. Off in the distance, the bridges lit up, providing a barrier between the city and the rest of the world.

"Do you want to get another drink?" Donny asks.

Beatrice trips then catches her balance. "Uh, I think I, I think we have had enough." She is quiet for a moment. She thinks about all of the vodka she ordered. Did she give the right address? It would be pretty funny if four bottles just show up at someone else's door. "Right now, I think I just want to go home.

Donny stops. "Okay."

She looks at him with squinted eyes. "I live a couple blocks away," pointing east. "You can walk me, if you'd like."

Donny shrugs his shoulders. "Cool. So are you going to like want me to call you tomorrow too?"

"Maybe." Beatrice smiles as she grabs his hand. "This is New York. Anything can happen."

 

Seventh Course

I go for the desk where I store my unfinished novel. This is also the place I keep my emergency cigarettes. I grab one and step outside.

Outside I watch the steam coming out of the subway grates, rising into the streets. The devil's breath. I take deep drags off my cigarette, just staring at the steam. I think about my unfinished manuscript; maybe I need to take a more specific event and turn it into my novel? That's when it hits me. The poet is the killer. He's telling the story of a "serial killer" through poetry, but it isn't revealed until the end, the final poem that informs the reader it was the narrator all along.

I take another drag then I turn back and look inside the apartment. Inside is hell. There are several empty vodka bottles throughout the apartment. Some of them have blood on them, others broken glass. Most have tears running down the side.

Sara walks into the living room. Her eyes are puffy; she turns on the television. I find a bottle that still has a couple drinks left. I pour a double vodka. In the background I hear the radio still playing.

You know them as AC/DC, and that was "Highway to Hell." Here's another uplifting song; this is "End of The World" by REM.

I make my way over the radio to shut it off. I wonder if this is the last of the vodka. I hear the doorbell ring. I go to the door. It's the liquor store with four bottles of Ketel One vodka.

The news is on the television.

The news reports job loss.

The news reports pending rain.

The news reports an accident on the LIE, a Ferrari with flames on the side. All are presumed dead.

Unable to speak, Sara rises and meets me near the living room table. We hug—no, more of an embrace. We are holding each other up. If either lets go, the other will fall.

The news reports subway trouble.

We hold on tighter.

The news reports arrests in connection to an S&M orgy.

We continue to hold each other. No words. This is where I'm supposed to say something comforting, say it's going to be okay. Nothing comes out.

Above us, the chandelier has loosened and is swinging back and forth. It could fall at any moment. It chooses not to at this moment.

The news report is following up on the orgy story; there were five arrested.