The first time Ben decided to quit drinking he only gave his friends an hour’s notice to show up at his mom’s house so they could drain all of his unfinished bottles and whatever they felt like sharing in his musty basement room. When he decided to quit again six months later Greg vetoed his plans for another sad subterranean finale and rounded up the boys for a night on Water Street that ended on Bradford Beach with an impromptu polar plunge that left Ben more determined than ever to stop boozing. By the time he’d reached his fifth try Ben’s Last Dance had become a bi-annual tradition, a free-for-all everyone craved and never failed to make the most of, as though they were all enjoying their last week of shore leave before a long dry journey home. Only Ben never got too crazy, choosing to drink his shots with a slow, calm focus that always got him as drunk as everybody else but didn’t end with broken glasses on the floor. He never achieved the buoyant drunk his friends enjoyed, though. His was always that torpid, end-of-the-night drunk nobody looked forward to, a drunk he almost seemed to submit to but always insisted on having one last time.
The unmitigated fun of Ben’s Last Dances came at a price, and that price was the months that came between. Things always started out well. Ben would stay sober for seven or eight weeks, throwing all his newfound time and energy into creative projects he’d set aside to drink—a concept album based on the Odyssey, a novel set in Atlantis, a blog focused on the trials and tribulations of his fellow millenials and a hundred others, picking them up and dropping them like seashells that, while promising at a glance, always came up broken. Eventually he’d crack, of course, starting out with a list of promises—no drinking hard liquor, no drinking on weeknights, no drinking alone—he wouldn’t stop talking about until he’d abandoned them, too. By week twelve he’d be back to his nightly Eagle’s Club visits, Greg watching from his own seat at the bar and waiting for the next STD or DUI or something else unthinkably possible to tell his friend he’d hit rock bottom again, disappointed and a little scared that this rock bottom could be his last but silent. What was he supposed to say? And what gave a nightly boozer like him the right to say it?
When it came time for the twelfth Last Dance—or was it the sixteenth…or were they already on twenty?—Ben told Greg he didn’t want their other friends involved.
“It’s embarrassing,” he said. “Why should we keep celebrating what a screw-up I am?”
“That isn’t what the Last Dance is about. It’s about us cutting loose. It’s about our friendship,” Greg said. “They’ll never forgive you if you leave them out.”
“I don’t care. It stays between us this time, alright?”
Greg reluctantly agreed, and the next night they met up at Paddy’s to open the crawl with Irish Car Bombs and Guinness. The drinks at Paddy’s could get expensive, though, so after a couple rounds they moved on to Landmark and washed down shots of Jagermeister with PBR. They were on their third cans when Ben, clearly feeling it, leaned over the table and launched into a rant Greg had learned to expect.
“I’m telling you, man, I’ve got to get myself together. You know? I’ve got to quit screwing around and get myself together. Because you only get so much time, you know, and I’m pissing it away. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in my own shit. You know what I mean? Like there’s all this negative energy I’ve created myself, you know, I’m not blaming anyone but me, but there’s all this negative energy and I’m just fucking drowning in it, you know?”
Greg finished his latest then reached over and finished Ben’s so they could pay their tab and get out of there. Back on his feet Ben brightened up, so Greg kept him walking until they reached Brady Street. They popped into the Up and Under and downed shots of Jameson until the band’s lukewarm Stevie Ray Vaughn covers drove them back into the street and down Water where they sipped Jack and Cokes and watched the girls ride the mechanical bull in Red Rock, ordering the same from a bartender at Coyote Ugly they chatted up relentlessly though it was obvious from the start how little she felt like chatting back.
“Hey man, do you remember Becky Metzle?” Ben asked when the bartender finally wandered off.
“Sure.”
“I ran into her the other day. Did you know she’s married now? With a kid? She looks great, too. That body. Can you believe I cheated on her? What was I thinking?”
Greg shrugged.
“I know. I wasn’t thinking,” Ben muttered. “I was drunk.”
“I wish you’d quit that ‘because I was drunk’ crap. Maybe you cheated on her because you didn’t like her. I mean, I remember Becky Metzle, and she wasn’t the sweetheart you’re pining for. Or have you forgotten that night she took a hammer to your PS3?”
“I don’t know. I miss her. I realize that now. I miss her and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Greg sighed. “If you haven’t given her a second thought until tonight you don’t miss her that much.”
“I don’t know, man. I think she might have been my soul mate.”
That was another cue to move, so Greg dragged Ben out of his stool and down the street to Trinity for Black and Tans, the two of them polishing off three apiece before bar close that came up on the sidewalk the moment they were back outside. Ben wanted to sit down but Greg pulled him along by the sleeve, both walking as though they were wading through shallow waves in flippers until they reached their favorite three-in-the-morning spot by the river and collapsed, Greg lying down on a bench while Ben sat on the edge of the concrete bank with his feet hanging over the water.
“Why do I keep doing this shit?” Ben slurred.
“Because it’s fun,” Greg slurred back.
Ben tried to get up and failed.
“Hey Greg.”
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m sick. Like, really sick,” Ben said slowly.
“Just throw up in the river. It’s nothing but a big toilet anyway.”
Ben laughed and Greg shut his eyes, the inevitable pass-out rendering him oblivious to his friend’s last question—“What are we doing here?”—and his splash in the cold Milwaukee river. He didn’t hear Ben’s frantic cries for help, either, and when he woke up hours later to the weak November sun he was half-frozen, hung over and alone. Stepping up to the edge of the concrete and looking down at the placid river Greg stretched and tried to remember how he’d ended up there and where his friend had gone, but walked home minutes later without so much as dipping his toe in either problem.
The unmitigated fun of Ben’s Last Dances came at a price, and that price was the months that came between. Things always started out well. Ben would stay sober for seven or eight weeks, throwing all his newfound time and energy into creative projects he’d set aside to drink—a concept album based on the Odyssey, a novel set in Atlantis, a blog focused on the trials and tribulations of his fellow millenials and a hundred others, picking them up and dropping them like seashells that, while promising at a glance, always came up broken. Eventually he’d crack, of course, starting out with a list of promises—no drinking hard liquor, no drinking on weeknights, no drinking alone—he wouldn’t stop talking about until he’d abandoned them, too. By week twelve he’d be back to his nightly Eagle’s Club visits, Greg watching from his own seat at the bar and waiting for the next STD or DUI or something else unthinkably possible to tell his friend he’d hit rock bottom again, disappointed and a little scared that this rock bottom could be his last but silent. What was he supposed to say? And what gave a nightly boozer like him the right to say it?
When it came time for the twelfth Last Dance—or was it the sixteenth…or were they already on twenty?—Ben told Greg he didn’t want their other friends involved.
“It’s embarrassing,” he said. “Why should we keep celebrating what a screw-up I am?”
“That isn’t what the Last Dance is about. It’s about us cutting loose. It’s about our friendship,” Greg said. “They’ll never forgive you if you leave them out.”
“I don’t care. It stays between us this time, alright?”
Greg reluctantly agreed, and the next night they met up at Paddy’s to open the crawl with Irish Car Bombs and Guinness. The drinks at Paddy’s could get expensive, though, so after a couple rounds they moved on to Landmark and washed down shots of Jagermeister with PBR. They were on their third cans when Ben, clearly feeling it, leaned over the table and launched into a rant Greg had learned to expect.
“I’m telling you, man, I’ve got to get myself together. You know? I’ve got to quit screwing around and get myself together. Because you only get so much time, you know, and I’m pissing it away. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in my own shit. You know what I mean? Like there’s all this negative energy I’ve created myself, you know, I’m not blaming anyone but me, but there’s all this negative energy and I’m just fucking drowning in it, you know?”
Greg finished his latest then reached over and finished Ben’s so they could pay their tab and get out of there. Back on his feet Ben brightened up, so Greg kept him walking until they reached Brady Street. They popped into the Up and Under and downed shots of Jameson until the band’s lukewarm Stevie Ray Vaughn covers drove them back into the street and down Water where they sipped Jack and Cokes and watched the girls ride the mechanical bull in Red Rock, ordering the same from a bartender at Coyote Ugly they chatted up relentlessly though it was obvious from the start how little she felt like chatting back.
“Hey man, do you remember Becky Metzle?” Ben asked when the bartender finally wandered off.
“Sure.”
“I ran into her the other day. Did you know she’s married now? With a kid? She looks great, too. That body. Can you believe I cheated on her? What was I thinking?”
Greg shrugged.
“I know. I wasn’t thinking,” Ben muttered. “I was drunk.”
“I wish you’d quit that ‘because I was drunk’ crap. Maybe you cheated on her because you didn’t like her. I mean, I remember Becky Metzle, and she wasn’t the sweetheart you’re pining for. Or have you forgotten that night she took a hammer to your PS3?”
“I don’t know. I miss her. I realize that now. I miss her and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Greg sighed. “If you haven’t given her a second thought until tonight you don’t miss her that much.”
“I don’t know, man. I think she might have been my soul mate.”
That was another cue to move, so Greg dragged Ben out of his stool and down the street to Trinity for Black and Tans, the two of them polishing off three apiece before bar close that came up on the sidewalk the moment they were back outside. Ben wanted to sit down but Greg pulled him along by the sleeve, both walking as though they were wading through shallow waves in flippers until they reached their favorite three-in-the-morning spot by the river and collapsed, Greg lying down on a bench while Ben sat on the edge of the concrete bank with his feet hanging over the water.
“Why do I keep doing this shit?” Ben slurred.
“Because it’s fun,” Greg slurred back.
Ben tried to get up and failed.
“Hey Greg.”
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m sick. Like, really sick,” Ben said slowly.
“Just throw up in the river. It’s nothing but a big toilet anyway.”
Ben laughed and Greg shut his eyes, the inevitable pass-out rendering him oblivious to his friend’s last question—“What are we doing here?”—and his splash in the cold Milwaukee river. He didn’t hear Ben’s frantic cries for help, either, and when he woke up hours later to the weak November sun he was half-frozen, hung over and alone. Stepping up to the edge of the concrete and looking down at the placid river Greg stretched and tried to remember how he’d ended up there and where his friend had gone, but walked home minutes later without so much as dipping his toe in either problem.
