The Curious Affairs Of Atherton Bartelby

“You simply cannot listen to this,” my friend Stuart admonished, killing her Camel Light King Size in her Toyota’s ashtray and turning her car into the parking lot of a liquor store, “without whiskey.” She smiled her wry, sexy smile, winked one blue eye at me (sparkling in the lights dancing off of its surface, dizzying reflections of the liquor store’s blinking neon sign), and jumped out of the car, skipping into the store.

I remained in the car, took a deep drag of my Marlboro Red King Size, and pondered my first college road trip. I was traveling with a new friend for the first time, our destination well across the Mason-Dixon Line, if that can be imagined, and she was about to introduce me to what I have come to refer to as my Whiskey Phase, and to the music of Pearl Jam.

She pulled her worn Toyota onto the New Jersey Turnpike at a little after one in the morning, and as I listened, quietly, to the lyrics of “Alive” for the first time, tears rolled unbidden down my cheeks, dried nearly immediately by the chill autumn winds that blew through the car’s open windows.

That weekend, that road trip, and that experience, with Stuart, remain to this day some of the most indelible memories of my college life.

It was a surprise to all of my colleagues who actually purchased or won tickets to the U2 concert here in Honolulu, months and months ago, simply to see the band’s opening act, Pearl Jam, when the latter group announced their last tour date, without U2, one week prior. “Aaaaaww, damn it!” even Keiko bemoaned to me on a coffee break when the date was announced. “I only tried to win those tickets to see Pearl Jam! What the fuck?!”

I snickered (perhaps unkindly) into my sugared coffee.

“Buffalo Bill bought Bartholomew and I tickets to the Pearl Jam concert,” I admitted, with only a hint of gloating, referring to a father figure colleague / friend of mine who had bought the tickets for us as a thank-you to me for all of my hard work throughout the year, and as a congratulations to Bartholomew on his new professional position.

“Shut up!” Keiko snapped, jaw slack.

“It’s true,” I sighed, mock chagrined.

“Care to trade me for mine?” she inquired.

I burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me?! Our seats are fucking amazing! Besides, Bartholomew and I both think Bono sucks it. So, no thank you, my dear.”

Bartholomew and I exchanged memories of our respective Pearl Jam experiences this evening over Heineken Dark Lagers; his of the first time he saw them in concert, and me of my first college road trip, with Stuart, and whiskey, and Vedder. We chuckled only somewhat forlornly over our past memories, then giggled in ecstatic anticipation of making new mutual Pearl Jam memories this coming Saturday evening.

And I would not trade those tickets, nor the possibility of remembering that weekend with Stuart several lifetimes ago, nor celebrating this coming weekend with Bartholomew, for anything.

Photo Credit: Kerensa Wight, Pearl Jam Concert Tour, Brisbane Entertainment Centre, Brisbane, Australia, 11 November 2006. Originally posted on www.pearljam.com.

I hate Rachael Ray.

Now, if you know me, you also know that I make absolutely no secret of my hatred for this woman; in fact, I am pretty prolific about expressing my loathing for her. In my opinion, anyone who makes a living starring in vapid cooking and talk shows, being far too forced-chipper twenty-four hours a day, and creating useless and annoying little cooking and kitchen acronyms (i.e., “E.V.O.O.” instead of “extra virgin olive oil,” “GB” instead of “garbage bowl,” et cetera, ad nauseam) has got to go. Or, at the very least, be forced to endure incredibly painful and creatively sadistic acts of physical torture. Therefore, it should come as no surprise to read that, last evening, when I was presented with the chance to one-up Ms. Ray’s “Forty Dollars A Day” cooking / travel show, I leapt at the opportunity.

“Sweetie!” my friend Bartholomew whispered excitedly into my ear via telephone from his new office a few blocks away, “tonight is the tapping of the new WinterBock at Gordon Biersch! Free beer and pupus! Print out your e-mail invitation and meet me downstairs in, like, five!” Now, since the holiday season is nigh upon us, and since I am tasked with finding a new apartment by the end of the year, and since I generally do not manage my fiscal affairs responsibly, anyway, and since pay day is not until Wednesday evening, I was broke. Therefore, my reply to Bartholomew was simply, “Free beer and pupus?! Sweet, Darling! I am on my way down!”

After meeting him on Bishop Street and falling into step beside him on our walk toward Honolulu Harbor, I joined him, already on his cell phone, by using my own cell to dial up a mutual friend / colleague to invite her to join us after work, and ensure that she knew where we would be (back bar, on the water). We ordered a round of ice waters from the bar, and proceeded to help ourselves to the keg of WinterBock and the seasonal menu items being proffered to tapping-party invitees. These included a creamy shrimp linguine, chicken in some sort of cilantro, onion, and tomato pico de gallo, pork medallions with apricot glaze, and, of course, my favorite, garlic mashed potatoes. By the time last call rolled around at five minutes to six and we were filling our steins one final time, the conversation and laughter between friends were freely flowing (“Oh, shit! What was that other film that Armand Assante was in? That slapstick comedy? With that actress who is a total bitch?” “Sean Young?” “Yes!” *LOLZ!*), we were all suitably inebriated, and our stomachs were all satiated.

We left around seven; three friends, having enjoyed three fabulous hours during a cocktail sunset on Honolulu Harbor, for exactly zero dollars. All for filling out three brief personal information postcards several months ago to sign up for e-mail notifications of special Gordon Biersch events. Not too shabby, in my not-so-humble opinion. And that, kind reader, is how one does Honolulu on zero dollars a day, thereby besting the Food Network “chef” of rather dubious culinary fame.

Eat your fucking heart out, Rachael Ray.

I remember, when I was young, watching a movie on Home Box Office with my mother. It was called “Best Friends” and it starred Goldie Hawn and Burt Reynolds. I remember how much the story affected me at even that young age (what, 11? 12? already an emo fag?), how long after the film ended I had cried (along with my mother, of course, who I found out much later developed an affection for the film not only because she had a super-secret embarrassing crush on Burt Reynolds, of all people, her entire life, but also because at the time she had been having an affair with a man she loved very deeply).

I have been thinking about that film a lot, lately, particularly following the events of the last few weeks in my life. I even broke down crying last week while on a break with my friend Blythe when I confessed to her that I felt exactly like one of Goldie Hawn’s lines in the film: “What I need right now is to go to my best friend and tell him what’s wrong. But I can’t. Because you’re my best friend and I’m losing you.”

I am not in a very good space. Still. And, I suspect that the impending holiday season, coupled with a necessary search for a new place to live, will keep me in said not very good space until well into the new year. So, apologies in advance should I disappear until after 2007 has reared its ugly head; I am better off being silent and miserable than dragging anyone who still reads this thing along with me.

Happy Fucking Holidays.

Or something like that.

It is a sad, sad day when the only thing that makes you happy is catching a glimpse of your reflection in your office building’s elevator doors after making the move from blonde to brunette the evening before and thinking, “Day-um, Motherfucker! I’d fuck me! Too bad nobody else will!”

Photo Credit: My Fabulous Roommate Cordelia

“Darling.”

“Yes, Sweetie.”

“What on earth did the text message that you sent me last night from VText mean?”

“What the fuck?” I replied. He handed me his phone. “I cannot WAIT untail the drail! UGH!” I read.

I laughed. “Darling, I’ve no earthly idea,” I said, handing his phone back to him. “‘I cannot wait until tomorrow, when you quit?’ ‘I cannot wait until pay day?’ ‘I cannot wait until we move to Boston?’ Who can say?”

He laughed, heartily and deeply. “I am saving this text message forever,” he said. Wiped catsup from the corner of my lips with a finger. Licked it.

We were sitting, alone, at Our New Special Place: The Best Picnic Table On Oahu, in a state park at what is now the terminus of Round Top Drive, with a view of Diamond Head. The sun was attempting to shine through layers of white haze. We were eating only once in awhile guilty pleasure Whoppers with cheese from The King Of Burgers and sucking Mickey’s through straws in honor of Neneh Cherry, our freshman years in college, and his last day in our office.

He resigned yesterday morning, following a whirlwind week of corporate courtship and an eventual official letter from his new corporate headquarters (that of my firm’s chief competitor) offering a 40% increase in pay and an office with a door and a view of Honolulu Harbor. Slightly jealous, yet insanely ecstatic for him and this amazing new opportunity, I had instant messaged my boss in Seattle and told him that I was taking the afternoon off in order to fend off a developing migraine celebrate my best friend’s corporate coup.

He polished off his Whopper. Swallowed a mouthful of Mickey’s. Ripped off the already half-ripped hem of his cargo shorts. Took my left arm in his hands and wrapped the fabric from his shorts around my wrist.

“Thank you for celebrating this with me, Atherton,” he said. “It means a lot to me.”

“Well,” I sighed, “what else could I have done after the week that we’ve had, and being forced to listen to your boss vent to me for ten minutes about how furious he was that you did what you did this morning, only to finish that huge proposal that you left in order to steal a client away from the firm that you’re now working for? I mean, I deserve to celebrate with you!”

He laughed again. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with Leslie Lee and that proposal. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, please,” I admonished, “you know it was my pleasure.”

We traded memories of our respective freshman years in college, compared notes on David Lynch’s cinematic oeuvre, and composed mental lists of The Things We Must Do Before We Leave Hawai`i.

“Lana`i,” he said, nodding to himself affirmatively, “I have to take you to Lana`i. And Moloka`i, so you can ride the horses at The Ranch. And we have to do The Ice Palace again, just because.”

“So we’re stuck here for at least another year?” I inquired, repeating what he had told me earlier, on the ride to the park.

“Yes, Darling, but imagine the place we’ll be getting in Boston with this new salary! We’ll be able to get one of the cool Boston proper lofts, not just a two-bedroom in a suburb! And we’ll have enough space to get you a puppy. And,” he paused, for mischievous dramatic effect, “you will never guess what I booked for us this weekend, kind of a celebratory farewell for us around this time next year.”

“Shut up,” I said. “What?”

“I booked us for Halloween in Lahaina next year, over the weekend.”

“Shut up! You did not!”

“I did, Darling! I’ll show you the e-mail confirmation for the suite when we get home. It will be a fabulous send-off right before we move to Boston.”

After squealing and hugging like two twelve-year-old girls, we cleaned up the picnic table and hurried back home, “Birdhouse In Your Soul” playing on repeat the entire way, singing the cheesy lyrics to each other: “Not to put too fine a point on it, say I’m the only bee in your bonnet…” He stopped, as he usually does, on the one-lane portion of the road back to Town that overlooks both sides of the island. Put his hand on my knee. “I think tonight will be a beach night,” he said, “and tomorrow, Happy Hour at Jose’s to celebrate my first day in my new office.”

I put my hand on top of his.

“I cannot wait…”

I paused.

And we finished together.

“…untail the drail!“

And we laughed.

Before driving off into the white noise of the Honolulu afternoon.