Hangover

Peter paused and took a swig from his water bottle. It splashed loud and wet and made me wish I hadn't finished mine so quickly.

“After a time, he starts talking about his wife, they'd already had one kid and she wanted another. He wanted to wait longer. There was some issue or another about her going back to work or being a stay at home mom; I don't remember. The point is he started talking about all this personal shit.”

“Uh-huh, so what happened, did he get a man-crush on you?”

A jolt ran through Peter. He nodded slowly and deliberately. “Oh, yeah, did he ever.”

For a moment I had a vision, a vision imbued with the candy-colored lucidity characteristic of the tequila hangover: I pictured Peter and this Tom guy strolling hand-in-hand through the Castro District in muscle shirts made of that net-like material. For good measure, I gave Peter a shaved head and a mustache.

He looked around as if to make sure no one was listening, then leaned in closer. “You wouldn't believe it if I told you.”

“Oh come on, man. Maybe it was all in your head.” I winked and smiled. “Maybe you were just projecting.”

“Fuck you!” Peter shook his head, grinning ear to ear and even blushing a little. “How's this for projecting? One day I'm leaving my place to go to the store. I come out the gate and there he is, looking like a forlorn kitten on the sidewalk.” Another swig of water.

“So?”

“Well, he's like I need to talk to you. My wife threw me out. So we go down to Farley's on the corner. This is when I was still living with Tessie. Remember that cute little cottage on Potrero Hill?” I remembered Tessie and I remembered the cottage, which always had fresh-cut flowers in the living room. They'd worked hard decorating the place with rough wool rugs on hardwood floors and antique but sturdy furniture, lots of Shaker stuff. The result was something between Southwestern and Colonial Williamsburg and very tasteful. When they broke up, they fought over the furniture the way some couples fight over child custody.

Tessie was five or six girlfriends back for Peter, and probably his last remotely serious relationship.

“So what happened?” I wanted to get another bottle of water but had to hear the rest of the story first.

“Okay, so I'm like, yeah it's hard having a new kid but everyone gets through it, you just gotta go through it. Blah blah blah. You know, very supportive stuff because I figure he's just going through a bad spell. He'll get over it. All this time, though, I'm wondering why he's talking to me. I mean, we just ride together at work some times. Where are his real buddies, someone who really knows him?”

Peter chewed on a thumbnail.

“Then he says it's not about kids or her not working or any of that. Suddenly he confesses that he's met someone else, he thinks he's in love, really in love, maybe for the first time in his life, and he's really confused about what to do.”

“And you're the someone else? Jesus H. Christ, you gotta be kidding me!”

Peter opened his arms in a mock Italian plea. “Are you telling the story or am I telling the story?”

“Story? It's gonna be War and Peace before you're done.”

“All right, all right. Yes, he finally confesses that I am the special someone he's met and hence all the confusion.” Peter feigned exasperation. “Are you happy now?”

I leaned back and helped myself to Peter's water. He didn't notice. “Wowie, zowie, Batman.” I took another deep swig. “How was that for you?”