In Sight of Stars(10)

I glance at Cleto and try to emulate the way he looks and stands. Cleto was born to do shit like this. Nothing rattles him. He knows how to get anyone to buy what he’s selling. I’m guessing it’s the southern accent. He’s originally from Alabama. His real name is Jared, but we started calling him Cleto after Cletus, the stereotypical hillbilly character from The Simpsons. When we first met, he was always going on about how it was his favorite show. He was always quoting it and shit, so we figured he wouldn’t get mad.

He didn’t. He thought it was so funny, he calls himself Cleto now, too. Like I said, laid back. Take the whole drinking thing. He’ll be the first one to tell you he’s been drinking since the tender age of ten.

“And, not your fancy liquor store bullshit either,” he likes to remind us. “Homemade rotgut hooch. The kind that’ll literally singe your nose hairs. You pussies would be dead after one sip.” He doesn’t drink that much, but still. Sometimes I do kind of worry about him.

Dan passes the water bottle back to Cleto as we move a few spots closer. I fumble for my wallet, trying to figure out if I should leave my fake ID in its clear plastic slot and flash the whole thing, or pull it out in advance.

When we finally reach the head of the line, Cleto flashes his ID and mentions his cousin’s name. Dan and I follow suit, and the bouncer just lowers his shades (Ray-Bans even though it’s nighttime) and waves us in.

“That’s it? Motherfucker!” Dan exclaims before we’ve even cleared the door, causing Cleto to give him a death glare.

The place is crawling with people. Dan is hyper again, sure that he sees Taylor Swift. Cleto elbows his way to the bar and orders us drinks I’ve never heard of, and before you know it, we’re standing next to some cute girls, flirting and getting buzzed.

Life is good, everything is good, until I realize I’m more than a little drunk, like close-to-puking drunk, and the room is starting to spin.

“Cleto,” I say, leaning in and nearly falling on him, “I thinkh I needa geh air…” I motion toward the door, but Cleto just laughs and turns his back on me, says something to Dan, who is holding his own with a spectacularly pretty red-haired girl. I tap his shoulder again. “Cle-oh … for real…”

I must look desperate because he says, “Gimme a minute. My sister here can’t hold her liquor. We need to get her some fresh air.” He gets up and steers me toward the front door, which, one second I’m super happy and relieved to be headed toward, but the next, I’ve decided I’m sober enough and we should go back to the girls.

I say this to Cleto, but he says, “It’s okay, Romeo, I think we should get you outside.”

I try to twist away from him—he’s a skinny motherfucker, so I can usually break free. But drunk, not so much, and when he refuses to let go, I haul off on him, missing completely, and slamming my fist into the chest of a life-size stuffed bear that stands off to the side of the front door.

I take the bear out. I mean, the motherfucking animal goes flying, me with it, and we both land several feet away, facedown, on the beer-sticky floor. Cleto stands over me, laughing.

“Time to go home, man.” A thick hand drags me up without effort, and I’m staring into the face of the Ray-Banned bouncer.

I hold up my hands in surrender, but Cleto steps in for me. “He’s okay now,” Cleto says. He nods toward the bar. “Farkus is my cousin. But, we’re leaving now, I swear. We’ll make sure to get Ole Revenant, here, home in one piece.”

“The Revenant!” Dan has righted the bear, and he’s growling and moving it toward me, and a crowd has gathered, and pretty much everyone is dying laughing.

“Go, Leo!” someone yells, and someone else shoves Dan and the bear into me and I stumble backward, the bear landing on top of me as the crowd breaks into an uproar.

Now Ray-Banned Bouncer is back, and this time he’s got both Dan and me by an arm.

Dan looks up in all sincerity and says, “Hey, chill out. You can’t just boot the Revenant, man!”

And then I’m laughing, and Cleto is laughing, and Dan is laughing, and we’re all kicked out, and we’re rolling with laughter toward home.

The whole thing was hilarious. The goddamned funniest thing that ever happened. So why am I crying thinking about it now?

I miss those guys, Cleto and Dan. And that’s on me, not them. I’m the one who dropped the ball. After I moved. Even before that. After my father died. They tried, but I shut down. I blew them off. They didn’t know how to help me anymore.

They tried, though. They texted. They called.

“Can’t, dude. Sorry. Next time,” I’d respond. I made no effort. I wanted to make plans with Sarah instead.

I screwed up.

Because I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t be us. I just couldn’t feel it anymore.

Across the room, I walk to the bureau and slide open its few flimsy drawers, one after another, though I don’t know what I’m looking for. Nothing, really. I’m just looking. Like I’m at a hotel and I’ll find a nice brochure or something. Glossy, with photographs of pristine rooms and smiling visitors. Some catchy slogan: Things to Do and See During Your Stay at the Ape Can. Instead, I find a small laundry sack (no drawstring or ties) and three books: a black paperback Bible with gold lettering, a pale blue book called Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, and a navy blue paperback that looks like it’s from the 1970s called One Day at a Time in Al-Anon. I pick up the twelve-steps one and open to the first page: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.”