“Hey Bud, Let’s Party” | 6 February 2024
“Surfing is a way of life,” said a wide-eyed millennial from his perch at the bar, two stools away.
He’s too young to get my Jeff Spicoli reference so I decided to swallow it with my gin and tonic and volleyed deadpan, “Is that right?”
Is it fucking impossible for me to experience just one afternoon in my favorite ocean bar alone with just my crossword and gin without attracting the douche du jour and his equally fresh ink on both his calf and his divorce?
BNR Response
“Hey, can I get another one of these?” the surfing divorcé said, waving a half-empty pint glass near his chin before taking another swig. “What ya drinkin’, brother?” he asked as he turned his gaze to me. There wasn’t enough gin in the world to hide my disdain.
“Gin.” I belched back.
“Ah, love the stuff! Especially with cucumber. Brian has a great one here, really sweet and botanical.”
“Brian?” I asked, immediately regretting engaging with this guy.
“Yeah, Brian, the owner. He’s in Barbados right now or I’d text him and ask him to join us. Solid guy.”
I nodded reflexively. Then, having fulfilled my societal obligation of daily civility, I turned back to my crossword. Hmmm, ‘An Opera singer might miss one?’…I hated the pun clues.
“Yeah, thank god for Brian. I just moved out here and don’t really know anyone. After I divorced the old ball and chain,” he exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, “I thought, ‘You know what you need, Wally? You need to leave the concrete jungle and live on the beach, Amigo.’ And here I am.” He took a swig of his fresh beer, his bracelets clinking against the glass. “And I literally live ON THE BEACH, bro. I’m right down there!” he pointed out the window somewhere…I didn’t look up to see where. “The one with the yellow awning!”
“Sweet.” I said, once again not looking up from my crossword. I couldn’t shake the guy. After a few more stoic attempts at, well, basically ignoring “Wally”, I started to just feel like an out-and-out dick. So, I took a deep breath, ordered my third G&T, and leaned into the bromance.
Happy hour turned into appetizers, and Wally was generous. The order shifted immediately to his tab, per his insistence. I studied him further, peering at him over the rim of my glass, as he went on and on about the merits of Channel Islands surfboards versus Merrell. As I forced myself to look past the bucket hat that all the Gen Z kids were wearing on Tik Tok or Flip Flop or whatever disappearing ink platform of the month, which was no small feat, I noticed that the irritating Hawaiian shirt was actually first-generation Tommy Bahama: the pared-back silk versions that gave more Sinatra bowling league than manufactured luau. Dude was wearing slacks that I used to wear back in the day, back when I was trying to make partner and cared about impressing people; before I had kids in college, my own alimony payments to make, and younger women I was trying to court. Every superficial item I interrogated belied my own vanity: it wasn’t about brand or cost, I had it wrong. This guy had a cultivated style – apart from the occasional misstep – and it was genuine and organic. I eased up on my negative inner monologue. He ordered another round.
As apps turned into steak au poivre and red wine, I started to, dare I say, identify with Wally. The name-dropping poseur behavior I had picked up on before was more likely the result of our age gap and my jealousy for the wealth I had forfeited years ago but which he still held fast.
We were an hour into conversations about our ex-wives when he started getting to the soft, underbelly, of his relationship. While we clearly diverged in vocabulary and certain values, and I cringed at his casual intermittent use of Spanish, we had a lot in common; and I envied his vulnerability. After he finished sharing about the unraveling of his decade-long marriage and ultimate move out West from Connecticut, I chose to go against my nature and attempt to share in-kind.
Over brandy, I felt it becoming easier and easier to open up to Wally. Once I got started, it flowed through me: everything from my professional false starts and setbacks, training every new kid on the block only to have them assume a supervisory role above me sixth months later; my sexual insecurities since leaving Pamela, and my varying degrees of satisfaction with various ED medications; my growing sense of loneliness and isolation as my children moved on with their lives and I was struggling to find a partner. Admittedly, I was in a slump. It felt so good to just talk and purge without editing myself or worrying about how I would be perceived. For the first time since my best friend Dave died five years ago, I felt really seen by someone. I didn’t have to counter every feeling and thought with a positive foil to ensure I wasn’t a “downer”. Wally saw me as a complex person simply navigating through midlife. End of story.
The servers were putting chairs up on tables around us and we suddenly snapped out of our confessional bubble. We each chuckled kind of awkwardly, half tipsy and realizing that we were both unaware of how much the people around us had taken in. We made plans for drinks the following week, with the promise to make it at least a weekly occurrence. I took a deep breath and folded my napkin, returning it to the bar in front of me. My regular bartender gave me a sardonic gaze, one I imagine he gave to many regulars who demonstrated irregular behavior like getting drunk and going home with the Thursday afternoon tourist. Even he couldn’t cut through this clarity and connectedness.
Wally pushed back his seat, finished his anecdote with youthful flourish, and placed his credit card on the bill while excusing himself for the restroom. I reached to my chairback to plunge my hands through my sweater arms, my head ducking toward the countertop, bringing my eye level with the counter. There I saw both the shockingly high bar tab and news that rocked me to my core: the credit card read Wallace Sampson. WALLACE SAMPSON. Fucking hell, that kid is my new boss.