Tuesday in Athens

I told myself that it was the cold air forcing the tears out of my eyes and not the conversation that still ran through my mind like a broken record player, each skip pushing another saline drop into the night. The rushing February night cut into my face, swirling around me as cars gained speed down the long hill I was walking up. Two of my buddies wanted to meet up for a few cheap beers tonight and who was I to turn down a legitimate chance for drinking. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line; in this case, the shortest distance between me and a friend was an uphill walk from my apartment.

I regretted lighting the cigarette after the first drag. It tasted bad and the warm smoke took away the distracting chill saturating my lungs. A few cars passed but it was a dead night, a frigid Tuesday in another college town.

I crossed an awkward five-way intersection and into one end of the small downtown area. Right away the up-tempo sound of warm conversation struck my ears, groups of four or five people out for some drinks and socializing. I strode on, letting the cigarette dangle from my lips, pulling on it only every few dozen steps. A bar across the street blared out bad 80’s music. These places became town halls, meeting houses for kids stereotyping themselves for safety and comfort. Afraid of facing society alone these young adults grabbed on to a moment in time and held it for as long as needed. Nobody actually likes music from the 80’s. People said they did because it let them automatically tag themselves, willfully trapping themselves in a period so that others could join without the worry of actually knowing each other. A band advertised its sound out of the second story windows of this bar, playing to no one while the enclosed seats outside of the bottom floor were packed with bad haircuts, too many piercings, and dressed up attitudes. This bar played Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana to no one.

The light changed just as I approached the intersection and I passed behind the two cars waiting at the light. I had been moving constantly and managed to shake off the chill. I almost walked right past the napkin splayed out in the middle of the sidewalk, willfully ignoring it until a second glance overcame my first intention and I stooped down, pinching a corner in case it was hiding something unpleasant. Someone had sketched out a crude extraction system. A hot plate, copper tubing, bucket of ice, a collection jug… a rough sketch of a still. The calculations on the back may have just been for show.

Turning the corner and starting on a new block, my hopes of a quiet night were erased by the crowd huddled in front of my bar. This many people outside meant that indoors would be packed and overflowing - two dollar beer night has that effect. I stepped through the chatting mass and into the warm interior. This bar gives itself its own credibility by hiring only two haughty bartenders and brewing its own beer. Inside was thankfully less crowded than I imagined, and I made my way through the tight aisle between booths looking for either one of the two guys I was meeting.

They weren’t there yet so I slid up to the bar and ordered a dark brew, a house brew. I joined several other guys near the entrance, each of us looking like forlorn eighth graders waiting to be asked for a dance. Groups were starting to leave now, and an empty table and stools became my new stakeout, with the last few beers of someone else’s good time keeping away seat-hungry others. I kept a lazy eye on the ones and twos that walked in and wouldn’t you know it, Brian Howard walks right by me… but it’s not really. Four and a half years in the same old town and soon everyone becomes Brian Howard, or Todd Culpepper, any of those guys who you hung out with for a year and lost contact with as they moved away, dropped out, got jobs, went home or just faded into the background. Forty-five minutes and the only thing I’ve said out loud is the name of this beer.

It’s almost midnight and more importantly, my beer is almost gone. I’m still alone and I don’t drink by myself in public. I’m tired of this scene and if I get another beer it’ll be more of the same, catching glances of my empty table in the window and staring down half-finished drinks. I get up and taste the sticky sweet residue on my lips as I zip up my jacket and head back out into the cold night, back down the hill. I’m leaving before my friends can show up.