Weekend portrait

Happy Birthday. You’re thirty now. That means you’ve got to be accountable for your actions. The past decade was a freebee. Everyone knows that and that’s why the bars and clubs are packed with pretty young things on the prowl. You drink too much. You freeze to death outside with a cigarette in hand and miserable look on your face. Behind you, the brick façade is shaking. The open and shut of the door lets music sneak out. You realize that you don’t know what the hell any of the innuendo means. You can guess, but there’s no point in it.

Later, you’ll bring home a girl who’s much too young for you. She talks and talks, but really that’s not why you brought her over. Still, you smile and pour a little juice in your vodka. The vodka is cold and crisp. It’s gone syrupy from a shelf life spent in the freezer. Vapor fills your lungs when you steal a sip before shoving it back into the fridge. It makes your heart hurt. The glasses go warm on your counter.

When you pass out, it’s like the outro to an old cartoon. Black fills the periphery and zooms in. The girl becomes a pinprick of skin. A blink and then she’s gone. You wake up in the morning only to find that she’s cleaned out your wallet and taken your copy of The Great Escape.

You retreat back into bed, draw up the sheets over your head and trick your bruised brain into thinking its night. The muscles pulled taut at temples begin to loosen. Sleep slackens you. The hours pass quickly. You’ve got clothes waiting two blocks down at the cleaner’s. Your refrigerator is empty. Your house is slowly becoming a pit. These are things for tomorrow though. The phone rings in the other room, but you let it go to the answering machine. The voice is cool and impersonal. You have reached…

“Jonathan, its Mom. Just calling to wish you a happy birthday, honey! I’m so proud of you. You’ve really got yourself together…”

A pillow drowns out the maternal pride. You don’t want to hear it and feel the disappointment that comes from being a total sham. You don’t know who you are, but up until now you haven’t had to think about it. Things are different now. You’re older. Everyone’s expecting a little bit of wiser too. You roll over and sleep for another hour.

You’re too old to be out with this crowd, but that doesn’t stop you from pulling on a shirt from the pile and shoving feet into shoes. By the time you leave your apartment, all the buildings around you are closed for the night with their grates drawn. You see your reflection in the glass behind them: a square viewfinder for your nose, your chin, and part of an eye. You’ve been chopped up. You are a sum of your total parts and it’s not looking good, baby.