Girl Grown-Up, With
Scar
“Friday night drinking night?” I nod,
embarrassed, and push a ten across the counter. Just bag my
six-pack, lady, I think.
Friday night – and Saturday night – drinking nights. When I
moved into the studio apartment near Union Station, I
immediately appreciated its proximity to a liquor store.
I’m a regular, barely old enough to drink, but legal. As a
college senior surviving off of a part-time job and student
loans, the only place I could afford is in this sketchy
non-neighborhood within walking distance to the Capitol.
It’s me and the elderly in our shadowy apartments, hiding
out on the cheap, living close to the bone. Weekends are
lonely. Two drinking nights, with nothing but PBS and
philosophy homework to mark the time.
My friend Martha visits from the Eastern Shore on occasion.
We stand in the local bar, two young women with unruly hair
and a high tolerance for alcohol. Twenty-something Hill
staffers gather in clusters in the smoky room, along with
mismatched pairs of aging drunks – burned-out policy wonks
ruined for any other town -- and slumming buzz-cut Marines.
An earnest guitar player perches on a small outcropping in
the middle of the room. As he croons, a group forms,
swaying and singing along: “Do you remember when we used to
sing sha la la la la la la la la la la te da.”
Arms vine around shoulders: the group is as invasive as
kudzu. The young and drunk threaten to envelop me as they
choke the room with their grasping tendrils, their beery
camaraderie.
I drain my pint glass and contort myself through the crowd
for another round, scanning the room, hoping to lock
someone’s eyes in mine, to find the person who will provide
comfort and redemption, who will heal the scar. Later that
night, Martha wins a bet with a Marine and his friend,
seals the deal with a headstand on the sticky bar floor.
We’re game.
“I’ve got an apartment around the corner.” Fade to
blackness. In the morning nothing stays down, not even
water. What happened last night? I sleep it off. The bar
conquest doesn’t call. They almost never do and if they do,
I don’t call back. The conclusion is foregone.