How I’m Hoping the Rest of My Day Will Go

It’s overcast now, drizzling, but twenty minutes later the sun will cut through the clouds like a laser and it will suddenly be twenty degrees. I’ll head down the alley behind my house, on the way to Royal Oak’s patio, but I’ll be stopped by the smells of barbeque. Backing onto the alley is a fire station and the guys there are grilling burgers. “Hey pal, we could use a hand here—there’s way too much food,” they’ll say. “And I hope you’re good for at least six Moosehead,” they’ll add, “we have to finish that before the chief gets back.”

I sit, eat, and listen to stories of burning buildings and saved lives. I’ve watched Backdraft seventy-two times so I impress them with my familiarity with all things fire related. They tell me I could be a firefighter, that I look the part. They describe me as "burly," "barrel-chested," and "hirsute"--although I’m not sure what the last one has to do with anything. I say goodbye, give them my address, and tell them to stop by some time.

Having finished work early, Sarah joins me at the Oak. The bartender mistakes me for Chuck Norris, and he also believes Sarah is that girl who played Winnie Cooper on The Wonder Years, so he says that the drinks are on him. We sit down and find ourselves next to some heavy debate at the table beside us over whether or not aspartame causes cancer. Sarah marches over and sets, not just the table, but everyone in the bar straight. I’m highly supportive but dead weight intellectually, so I end up chatting with the manager about how consistently awful the Oak’s food is. He shitcans the entire kitchen staff on the spot and hires me to consult on weekends. Back at our table the aspartame-haters now worship Sarah as a god. We invite everyone back to our place.

One of our guests is an amateur bartender, and after assessing our booze shelf, determines he can make a mojito. I drink this. I deem it good. Two other guests--first year University students--find themselves unimpressed with out CD collection. I stop the party cold and begin an hour long lesson on good music that makes Alan Cross look like Rick the Temp. From the start they’ve confused me with Howard Hessman (and it turn, Dr. Johnny Fever with an actual DJ), so they take my word as gospel. The mojito well starts running dry, but then the firefighters show up with a couple of kegs. I introduce them to my wife and they say she looks like--they’re not quite sure who--but someone hot. Another of our guests turns out to be Michael Chabon. He’s heard about Armada and asks if it’s too late to submit something, and adds that Rick Moody was asking him the same thing just the other day. A push up contest begins. The firefighters coerce me in and I bashfully beat their best by thirty push ups. The party spills out onto the street and we’re joined by other people pouring out of house parties. The guys from Death Cab for Cutie happen to have been hanging a few houses down. Along with Ron Hawkins. And The Weakerthans. And Fall Out Boy. And Ben Folds. The crowd tears down one of the condemned houses nearby and quickly constructs a stage. The artists gear up and begin a show that Spin Magazine will call “the concert that pushed Woodstock’s shit it.” Ron, confusing me with Badly Drawn Boy, asks me to join in with him on “Crackstatic.” Then all the artists get on stage and we sing “Handle With Care.” I get to do the Tom Petty bits.

The next day, I find out that work has burned down. Not just the building but work and everything associated with it. It’s a pity.