Barton Springs (New Year's Day)

For Lester Kevern

NEW YEAR’S DAY

You know how it says “use or freeze by (a certain date)” on packages of hot dogs and other meat products? If you freeze the hot dogs on that last day, how many days do you have to eat them when you take them out of the freezer? How many bonus days do I get now? If I had a girlfriend I could ask her questions like that. Unless she’s a vegetarian. If she’s not a vegetarian we’d probably eat all the hot dogs in time though. Unless she doesn’t like hot dogs. She probably only loves authentic Chicago style hot dogs. Or hot dogs at the ballpark maybe. For most of my life I only put ketchup on hot dogs. Like a child. It’s only recently that I bought mustard and relish for the first time. That relish jar is so little.

If I had a girlfriend she probably would have told me what that sprayer nozzle thing on the kitchen sink was for. It’s only in the last year or two that I learned you can use it to spray ketchup and ranch off your plate. It’s been a real game changer. I always just pulled it all the way out of the hole and sprayed it around like a water gun. I never once wondered what its actual purpose was. She hates it when I “accidentally” spray her. Sometimes we laugh about it afterwards. Sometimes we DO NOT.

She picks out the music while we’re cleaning up. I have suggestions if she needs some. We’d maybe read a little before bed. She still sometimes laughs at my reading glasses. No one else has ever seen me in them before. They are ridiculous looking. So gigantic. She looks kinda ridiculous in her reading glasses too. But I’d never tell her that. Maybe we’d watch one more episode before we went to bed. She’s never seen The Wire. And I’ve been wanting to do a full rewatch. I don’t like to watch intense things before bed though. It messes up my dreams. How’s my hair look Mike? You look good girl.

I’ve never been good at sleeping next to someone, but this weighted blanket has changed everything. I was never good at sleeping period. I’d toss and turn 400 times. I sleep like a baby now. A baby that sleeps soundly at least. Sometimes I only turn over once, and next thing I know it’s morning. I tried the weighted blanket last winter but it made me have a panic attack. My brain was a lot weaker then. I’ve never slept so great in my life.

I wish you’d stop eating so much chips and cereal in bed, she says. “Cereal?” I say. “Well chips at least,” she says. I feel like there should be some distinctions. Definitely not Doritos or Cheetos. Obviously. Bugles and Fritos seem safe enough though. Popcorn is questionable. I like it when Bugles say “America’s #1 Finger Hat” on the bag.

The nephews used to perpetually be concerned that I didn’t have a girlfriend. They don’t mention it at all anymore. These days they just want me to get a cat. You can’t reason with a cat though. You can’t explain to a cat that sometimes you have to stay in bed till eleven while you wait for your energy to recharge. She understands that though. She understands all of it. I told her about it early on. I hadn’t ever told anyone about it before. I hadn’t figured it out for myself yet. There’s lots of new thoughts in my head. Prior to this year I would have never once thought about getting a cat. I think about it all the time now. Litter boxes are so gross though.

When the ball dropped I’d put my hand behind her head and kiss her intensely. I’d feel an electric charge in my body. I always do. I mostly hated New Year’s Eve for my whole life. There was always such expectations to have fun. And it usually just always made me sad. I started loving it right before I met her though. I put on my sunglasses that say “LET’S PARTY” and I am ready.

In the morning when she wakes up I wish her a Happy New Year. I wake up early sometimes. Sometimes I’m rowdy in the morning. Afterwards we’d drink mimosas. I love mimosas but don’t usually drink ‘em by myself. I mostly only love half a bottle of champagne. She and I’d go through two bottles though. And be sad we didn’t have a third. We’d listen to David Childers sing about New Year’s Day at the seaside bar. And Slaid Cleaves sing about swimming in Barton Springs. I’d tell her how I only jumped in Barton Spring once on New Year’s Day, and how Slaid and Graham Weber were just getting out of the water when I got there. I’d tell her how magical it was. I’d tell her I was so scared I’d have a heart attack when I jumped in the water, but that it was actually refreshing, and I could totally see why people did it. I’d tell her how I changed clothes in that weird open air changing room and then met Lester at Freddie’s Place for bloody marys afterwards. I’d get choked up when I talked about Lester. She knows that I always do. She knows I cry all the time when I feel things these days. It’s damn dusty in here this morning, I’d say. And then I’d get back to making mimosas.

Maybe we’d drink bloody marys instead. I don’t ever make bloody marys for just me, but we’ve come up with our own recipe. She fries up some bacon and we add a little Old Bay. I’ve never cooked bacon in my life. That grease scares me.

I make us some breakfast tacos to tide us over till brunch. I’m still wearing my plastic top hat from last night. The dog stands beside me the whole time. He knows that I’ll give him a few bites of egg once they’re done. Eggs are good for dogs. I don’t know where the cat is. He’s probably laying in that ray of sun that comes through the front window this time of day. Sometimes I read there in the mornings if I get up early enough. Sometimes I stay in bed for a while and let my mind wander.

       
     CAH/FM7  2020 DEC

DRIVING TO GUATEMALA

A run down cinder block building. A small gravel parking lot in front. The air conditioner hanging in the window dripping nonstop, forming a small puddle in the dust and dirt below. The front door is heavy and opens slowly. The smell of cigarettes greets you instantly.

It’s dark inside. A plastic light in the shape of a race car hangs over the pool table in the middle of the floor. Bud Light posters with scantily clad women are hung high on the wall. Neon signs and Christmas lights are glowing.

The city outlawed smoking in bars last year. Dee brings over an ashtray and sets it down in front of you when she takes your order. She’s thin, with a perm, in her 60’s, dressed in nice clothes from a previous era. Polyester pants and a colorful blouse. Straight out of a Raymond Carver story. This is her bar. Dee and Jim’s. It is a bar for day drinkers. A quintessential Texas dive bar.

The only natural light in the building is when someone opens the big front door and a wall of sunlight blasts across the floor and pool table. It’s always a little startling.

Ice cold beers are $2. You can bring in your own bottle of liquor and buy a ‘set up’ to mix it with for $3. Black pleather padding is wrapped around the edges of the bar. Like a bumper car. There’s a coin operated trivia/photo hunt game on the corner of the bar top. The table at the end of the bar, by the jukebox, is permanently reserved for Dee and Jim. There is no sign to notify you of this.

If you’re there in the afternoon someone will probably buy a round of beers for the whole bar. There’s usually no more than six people there. Lester will almost always buy a round in return. After a few rounds of free beers I can’t keep up. There’s already a full beer sitting in front of me. The bartender says she can put me one ‘in the hole.’ I order a Lone Star and she sets it in the cooler for me. The regulars and Lester will have lapped me at least once by the time I’m ready for it.

Lester always drinks High Life. I meet him at Dee and Jim’s sometimes in the afternoons when he gets off work early. It’s halfway between the RV park where I live and the house that he and his wife bought recently. Prior to being homeowners they lived in a cool RV, which they sold to me a few months ago. That’s how I met him.

Lester is from England. He loves Chelsea fútbol, and his arms are covered in the old style blue/green tattoos. He calls girls “birds” and his friends “mates.” He’s nine or ten years older than me. He works hard and he parties hard. He charms everyone, ladies and men alike, with his stories and his irresistible smile.

Lester and I have plans. We’re going to move to Guatemala in a year. Lester and his wife have lived there before - their daughter was born there. The cost of living is dirt cheap. We’re going to buy a small nine room hotel. We’ll live in two of the rooms and rent out the rest, catering to American and English tourists. Lester will take care of maintenance and repairs. Kari will take care of gardening and decorating. I will handle online inquiries and guest interactions. It seems totally doable. We’ve even mapped out a route so that I can drive there in the Wonder Truck since Gus the pug doesn’t fly.

Dee and Jim’s hosts a Thanksgiving dinner at the bar for all of the regulars. Jim fries up a bunch of turkeys. Dee makes a bunch of sides and pies. It’s Wednesday and the bartender is telling us about the feast tomorrow. She emphasizes several times that we should come. It’s not just for regulars at all, she says. It’s for anyone that wants to come, and anyone who has nowhere else to go.

It’s only the second Thanksgiving I’ve ever missed with my family in Virginia so I go. Lester is busy but Aaron and Ben join me. It’s the first time I’ve ever had fried turkey. The sides and desserts are fantastic. Jim is wearing a baseball cap and untucked striped collar shirt over dark blue Wrangler jeans. He is 6 '3 and almost certainly played offensive line in his youth. He is wearing his standard white sneakers. He comes over and extends his gigantic hand and I shake it. He wishes us a happy Thanksgiving and asks what we thought of the turkey. It’s the best turkey I’ve ever had in my life, I say honestly. Jim is happy to hear that. He says he’s glad we’re here.

There’s talk that Dee and Jim are trying to sell the bar. Someone says they’re holding out for half a million dollars. There’s new construction across the street. High rise buildings with luxury apartments on top and boutique shops on the ground floor. The neighborhood is changing. They’ll probably get it.

Leave some money on the bar. Step out into the light. The sun is just starting to go down. Hurry back to the RV park to let Gus out. He does his business fast and races back in. It’s way past his supper time and he’s ravenous. He dances in front of his bowl while I scoop him some food.

We never make it to Guatemala. Lester and Kari will get divorced in a few years. The Gus will die a year or two after that. Lester and I will become like brothers. His family is all in England. He says it’s nice to have a brother in the states. I only have a sister. Lester is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. I tell him this all the time.

It’s impossible to stay in the RV after Gus’ death. There are too many memories, so I sell it. With no place to stay, Lester invites me to live with him for two months. He refuses to accept any money. “I love you mate,” he says, “stay as long as you want.” I tell him I love him too, but I feel weird about it for some reason. I’ve never been comfortable saying I love you. Especially to other guys. I don’t know why that is. Lester says it freely and easily.

English breakfast in the mornings, complete with HP sauce. Sitting on his porch in West Campus all afternoon, reading books. Through the screen door, listening to my favorite radio station playing on the stereo in the living room, as I watch the people walking by. It feels like I’m living in the Richard Linklater movie “Slacker,”
which was actually filmed, most of the scenes, just down the street. When Lester gets off work he will show up with a 12 pack of beer, and we’ll drink together all night. His friends from the neighborhood will stop by on their way to the bar and share one with us. They’ll invite us to come with them; sometimes we will.

We talk about our hopes and our dreams. I want to build a tiny home on my property in Virginia. Lester says maybe he’ll come in the summer and help me. Lester’s dream is to buy a sailboat, and sail around the world for a whole year. His daughter is a freshman in high school, and he won’t go until she graduates. She is the most important thing to him. He tells me I should join him for part of it. It makes me nervous to even think about, but it’s also exciting. I get so anxious if I don’t have lots of my own personal space, without anyone else around. Lester is the only person I don’t ever worry about that with.

The days living with Lester will be some of my favorite days. On the last morning of my two months at his house, I wake up early so I can be sure to catch him before he heads out to work. I thank him for everything, and ask him where I should put the key when I lock the door. He shakes his head and tells me to take it with me. “It’s yours now mate,” he says, “anytime you need it.” Then he gives me a giant hug, and tells me he loves me.

Lester will die unexpectedly three years later. I’ll get the phone call at my cottage in Virginia, and collapse onto the bed.

But for now we’re all still alive, sitting at the bar at Dee and Jim’s at 4 PM on a weekday afternoon, making plans to move to Guatemala. It seems like it might really happen. We’ve mapped out a route so the Gus and I can drive there and everything; Gus the pug doesn’t fly. Lester buys a round for the bar and everyone raises their bottles towards him. I’m drinking Lone Star, trying to keep up. I’ve already got one in the hole waiting for me. Lester, as always, is drinking High Life. I’m laughing at something he’s said.

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