You asked for the Allagash and when they didn’t have any, you threw a fit. What a fit it was. I never saw you so angry.
You made this sucking sound and with one hungry breath took in the thick air and incense smoke, unflinching until your face pruned. From anger or incense I never knew. God you looked hideous. You did this thing where you tapped your feet–tap, tap, tap–a raucous music, but you were actually kicking the barstools. I thought surely they would collapse into splinter piles at the toe of your reeboks. Mind you, this was one of those old bars, with sawdust scattered over the floor like the old days, and with every petulant kick the sawdust took flight to escape your wrath. I hid myself and thankfully, before too long the bartender gave you feeble words of apology and some other pale ale in two glasses. Your mood softened instantly. I remember my shock at the quickness of it all. You could be so cruel, so courteous. I’m pretty sure you left a tip.
And you don’t even drink ale, or beer, or any foamy alcohol. You hate the hops. I hated that about you. I remember. I remember you always ordered a martini, the dirtiest martini, with two olives in tow and a whole bunch of brine. My lips are puckering just imagining it. See! I’m sitting here puckered lips thinking about you–God, I had forgotten about the olive brine. I didn’t eat olives for six months after we decided not to speak.
After the Allagash incident, we sat at the bar in silence for some minutes sipping our paler, better ale. You made a big deal out of your newfound open-mindedness, in regards to our drinks of the night. You even gave yourself a foam mustache! Oh how cute, how precious. I wiped your lip with my thumb.
“You shaved me,” you said. “You shaved my mustache.”
“It’ll grow back,” I said, so smooth, so sly, and we kissed after that right there at the bar. Poor patrons! They sat in the wake of your Allagash storm, watched you bring back the bacon that was two pale ales to me, your horrified lover. And there we sat making out moments later as if it was all completely normal, or even one big game to us. I guess it was just that, a game. I remember I spilled foam on your thigh, and taking your hand in mine I cleaned it for you with a white napkin. We locked eyes and laughed like dogs.
“Gustav,” you said, while I clung to you. “Where are we?”
You probably don’t remember that it was I who found it. You always complained that we never went out anymore, that in our post-college malaise we settled into the comforts of slug sex and buying groceries. It’s not like we lived together. We would go a week without speaking, and then I would call, because of course you couldn’t, and I would ask what you were up to. You would say nothing much, just hanging with someone I’ve never mentioned and you’ve never heard of. And I would always ask, are you fucking this person. And you would say no, I wasn’t planning on it. And I would say, well are you planning on it now. And you would always say something after that. I don’t even remember what you would say. I would be seeing red at this point. I would be standing in line at Whole Foods or sitting in a park with a Kurt Vonnegut book propped up under my knees, seeing red and wanting to disappear just to spite you.
I never hung up the phone. Sometimes you hung up on me, but I never hung up on you. Instead, I’d ask if you wanted to come over Saturday, and every Saturday you found yourself in my apartment with my three roommates, who drank, drank, drank wine from plastic cups and played clubby music off their tinny JBL loud enough that they couldn’t hear us fucking. That time you connected to their speaker and played something grating, something underground, something local, and like three little piggies they came knock, knock, knocking on my bedroom door asking me to turn that bisexual noise off. And you just turned it up. After that they asked me to stop inviting over the weird guy with the pointed brows and pretentious taste, even though they brought all sorts of characters to our apartment throughout our two year lease. But after the speaker incident, I felt too embarrassed and you never wanted to have me over to your apartment, God forbid, so I suggested we go out for a change. And so I found us a place to go.
Out became a brick building in the heart of Bushwick that doubled as both a bar and a barbershop. I looked up “martini” on Google Maps and it was the second option. With you, out was that easy. Our Saturday plans became fuck in secret in my disgusting bed then go to the brick building in the heart of Bushwick that doubled as both a bar and a barbershop. I had to repeat myself often with you, because you missed my jokes and often missed my points entirely. Sometimes I repeat things (because I like listening to myself) but also, at the time, because I was excited to have somebody to listen. Whatever. I was proud of myself for finding us a location. I was the master of our joint fate.
I don’t remember what I wore, but I do remember taking forty minutes to blow-dry my hair. That was the summer I was really into French braids. My process was meticulous then, and I needed to look perfect for you. You just threw anything on. I remember that unbelievable blue trucker hat that made your skull look like a bowl. You probably don’t remember how I stifled my laughter when you clandestinely climbed up my fire escape and into my bedroom (mind you, we were sneaking by that point) and how with deft fingers I slipped off the hat and ran my hand through your hair. “It’s giving, yes, yes, it’s giving,” was all I could bear to say. “Now let me hump on you.”
Your hair was good then. Tight to your scalp as rows of wheat. We kissed for a while, but my roommates started playing their music and I didn’t want to play that game so I suggested we leave. “Fine,” you said–and that’s all you said–so we slipped into our shoes.
At the bar I was through being embarrassed. Without shame I kissed you again, the rabble rouser, excited at our daring. I felt dangerous and alive. You checked your reflection in the wall of mirrors behind the bar. I saw your eyes gleaming in the smoky half-light, scanning the row of beauty stations that made the barbershop opposite us. Never a bar like this. Mustachioed, pompadoured, marked millennials holding clippers and nail files. I grinned, not knowing what else, and told you to stop looking at yourself. You didn’t smile.
“Why don’t you get a haircut?”
Startled and suddenly afraid, I shook my head. “What do you mean?”
You pointed to a chalk sign above the bar. Haircuts, 10 dollars. Only someone crossed out the 10 and wrote 15.
“You’re the one hiding that hairline under a goddamn trucker hat,” I said. Playfully I reached up to grab it, but you ducked away with a quickness that I later realized was revulsion. “Are you serious?” I asked, more forceful.
“It’s so, so long,” you began your argument. “We’re already out. Look, take your pick.” You gestured to the barbers. None of them were busy. They weren’t even all barbers. They sipped rum and cokes through striped straws; one of them set up a sewing machine and was patching a canvas bag.
“Henry, no, I can’t. I won’t. I’ve been growing it. I like it long. Let’s just bedazzle our bags. They have bedazzle stations, too, look. Bedazzling stations.”
“Uck. I wouldn’t bedazzle my ass with their plastic diamonds,” you said. I knew you were being serious, being evil; maybe it was the absence of Allagash. Maybe you should have just asked for the filthy martini.
“All those microplastics,” I tried desperately. “Come on, baby, I can bedazzle your ass.” I pawed at you like a cat begging for meow mix. You shook your head. That dumb hat shook with you.
“I thought you wanted to go out,” you said in a martyr’s tone. “I thought we never did anything anymore. Well, here’s anything.”
When we first met, at Alyssa’s comedy show in a beautiful basement, I went alone to support my friend. You attended with an old flame you wanted to rekindle. I remember because when you bought me a beer that night (actually, an Allagash now that I think back), I asked about the guy you were with and you just shrugged. Only later did you tell me the truth: a college tinder fling, a six month situationship that you could never love. I never saw him again. I forget his name at this point. I wasn’t jealous; I had past relationships too, with the love and affection. But the way you talked about it, the way you shrugged, the way you failed to love. Even then, I hated you and you hated the world.
The first barber said she couldn’t work with my hair, that she hated to see such a beautiful braid cut loose. The second barber, an older punk wearing a leather vest, nodded when I inquired about the famous 15 dollar haircut. He asked what I wanted, I said dealer’s choice. You laughed at that, Henry. You said, “Fair play.”
I held your hand as the barber flashed his shears. Your grip was flimsy, limp. Historically I always held my hand in front of yours (it felt weird the other way), but you either didn’t remember or didn’t care and instead in that moment you took the lead. I didn't care enough to say anything, mostly because I was nervous about the haircut. The leather-vested punk smiled through the whole ordeal. Towards the end, I started smiling too, but mostly because the whole thing felt unreal.
When we got back to my place after, you broke up with me. I remember only bits of the conversation that have been recounted to me by my three roommates. Apparently, they turned off the speaker to listen. The bastards. I doubt either of us noticed.
Kurt Vonnegut of Bushwick
This is so awesome