20. Hank
HANK
Do you remember that song “Everybody Hurts” by REM? People think it’s about loneliness, sadness, and depression.
I think it’s about fortysomethings slogging through an endless bar crawl.
We stumble into bar number…eight, I think? It’s a western-themed bar. The Christmas decor looks off in a place so Southwest-coded. Christmas isn’t a warm weather holiday.
Next to the packed bar is a mechanical bull getting a workout by some very excited ladies.
We are on hour three of this drinking extravaganza and everything hurts.
My only teammates still standing are Bill and Griffin.
Griffin’s skin is pale, his one eye bleary.
He took off his sweater two bars ago, and blotches of sweat stains cover his undershirt.
Bill is in good condition because he stopped drinking at the third bar.
Besides the constant drinking, every bar is standing room only. I know as hockey players, we’re supposed to have very strong legs, but when you add alcohol into the mix, our bodies turn to jelly.
Jack and his friends are trucking along as if this is another night. At every stop, Jack turns to his boyfriend to check in on Griffdog, make sure he’s okay. And each time, Griffin powers through.
The only person in the Comebacks having fun is Nick. The pure glee brightening his face tells me this is the first time he’s gotten drunk in a while. His giddiness is the only reason I’m still here.
He stumbles up to me and throws his arms on my shoulders, half in a hug and half for support.
“How you doing, pal?” I clamp my hands on his waist.
His eyes glisten, a bit watery. “Great!!” he yells. “Did you know you call everyone pal?”
“Because everyone is my pal. I see friends, not enemies. It’s a good way to look at the world.”
“You.” Nick points into my chest, also using it for balance. “You should run the UN, Hank. You could bring about world peace.”
“I’m going to get us some waters. Don’t tell Griffin.” I spot a Gatorade water cooler with plastic cups on top.
“Don’t tell Griffin what?” Griffin sidles up to us, looking like he missed out on the fun part of being drunk and went straight to hungover.
“That we’re having the best time!” Nick throws his arms up, nearly smacking Griffin in the nose.
“Jack wants to set up beer pong at one of the tables,” Griffin says. The thought of another drinking game makes my stomach turn. Even Griffin seems unenthused about the idea.
I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You can say no, Griffdog.”
Griff’s face softens for a moment, and I can see a layer of…well, it almost looks like fear in his eyes. He covers it up fast. “I don’t want to say no. I’m having too much fucking fun with my boyfriend.”
Jack runs up to us and slaps Griffin on the butt. “Beer pong?” He looks to me and Nick.
I take a look at Nick, who is teetering on the border of fun drunk and blackout drunk. “We’re going to pass. We’re switching to water,” I say firmly. If Griffin has a problem, he’ll have to deal.
“Cool, man,” Jack says. “I’m impressed that you gents are still hanging around. You’re alright! And don’t worry Bill. We’ll be ready to play tomorrow.”
“You better,” Bill says. He and Jack pound fists. “I think I’m going to head out. I’m tired of babysitting everyone. Night.”
Bill waves goodbye and strolls out. Another one bites the dust.
Jack kisses his boyfriend’s arm. “Griffin, are you sure you’re okay? It’s totally cool if you want to switch to water or even go home.” It’s the most sincere I’ve heard Jack be all night.
“I’m not going anywhere. We still have four more bars to go,” Griffin says.
Four more bars? The thought of that makes my beer-filled stomach turn.
“Are you sure?” Jack wonders.
“Did I stutter?”
“Okay.” Jack puts his hands up. “I’m going to ride the bull and then have another round. Griff, another?”
“Yeah. I’ll have another,” he says.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I take Nick by the arm and beeline to the neglected water cooler. I pour him a cup, then myself.
“I’m good,” he says.
“Drink.” I hold the cup to his lips until he takes a sip. He winds up downing half of it. “If we drink water for the next few hours, our hangovers should be minimal.”
“You drink, too.” Nick tries to hold up a cup to my lips. He winds up spilling down my shirt. “Oh, bloody hell.”
I jut my head up at the new accent Nick is using. He sounds quasi-British, or at least quasi-European.
“I am not to operate any machinery, including water glasses,” he says, again in an accent. He wipes off my shirt with a stack of napkins. It does nothing to help, and the napkins shred into little balls.
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?” Again with the accent. I’m not complaining. It’s very sexy. Like an even gayer version of Scar from The Lion King.
“You sound…not from here. Like you should be in a historical drama.”
“Heavens no. I’m from Baltimore.” He leans into me and plants a kiss on my lips. Even though it’s sloppy, it melts me from the inside. “But I might’ve gone to British boarding schools.” He lets out a tiny burp.
“You are trashed, my man.”
He kisses my neck. “I am your man.”
The alcohol has turned Nick into a flirty, PDA machine. Better that than an angry or depressed drunk. He’s so cute and sexy and touchable that I can’t help flirting back.
And being called his man. Yum!
I run a hand through his lush hair, let my thumb caress his cheek. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”
“And you are very sexy!” His accent is really turning my crank.
“You’re one of those drunks.”
“What do you mean one of those drunks? I’m not drunk! I’m inebriated!” He takes a sip of water. “Oh no, I’m less inebriated now.”
Using big words while smashed? A total turn on. I want to permanently live in this moment.
“You’re so smart! Not sure what you see in me. I didn’t even go to college.”
“Shut your hot mouth!” He takes my lips in between his thumb and forefinger and literally presses them shut. “Don’t say that about the man I’m falling for!”
Did he just say…I gulp down a very nervous, very excited lump in my throat. Nick is unfazed.
“I went to a really good university with some of the dumbest wankers in the world. The only thing between their ears is a light breeze. You’re smart, and you’re wonderful, and you’re such a good father and friend, and you’re this beautiful, sexy light that…
shines in rooms where…darkness…and there’s a light switch.
” He collapses into a silly ball of laughter, giggling into my chest. “I can’t believe you’re into a guy like me. ”
“We’re both into each other!”
“Could that be any more exciting?” he says in his regular voice, which now that I think about it, sounds a lot like Chandler in Friends.
“Hank!” he yells in my ear, back to his drunk British accent. “Can I call you my boyfriend?”
My heart does more somersaults than an Olympic gymnast. “Yes!” I yell back over the music. “Can I call you my boyfriend?”
“Yes!” Nick flails his hand on a passing girl’s shoulder, which I think is supposed to be a tap. “Excuse me?”
“What?” she asks, annoyed.
“This is Hank. He’s my boyfriend.” Nick hugs himself tight against me so that our cheeks touch.
Her face melts instantly. “Old people are so adorable.”
She forms her hands into a heart and holds it against her chest, then walks back to her friends.
“She’s a queer ally,” Nick says.
“You’re really rocking this accent. I had a friend who used to speak in a Spanish accent with the lisp when he got drunk. Now that I think about it, was that racist? Eh, I like your drunk accent better.” I scratch at this beard, something I’ve wanted to do for a while.
“It’s my real accent!” He presses his forehead against mine, then cups his hands around our eyes. I do the same thing, and together, we form a secret vision tunnel only we can access. We block out the whole drunk world.
“Can I tell you something, Hank?”
“Anything.”
“I’m actually a crown prince. I’m part of the Ardenian royal family. I have loyal subjects, a personal secretary named Agnes, and I live in a castle.”
I snort a deep laugh that shakes my whole body. “You are so fucking drunk.”
A little bit later, Griff looks close to death after his beer pong game, and I’m surfing on cloud nine with Nick at my side.
Red and green spotlights circle around the dance floor as a DJ pumps out Christmas-themed jams. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” blares from the speakers. Groups of bar crawlers party the night away, drinks sloshing from their cups as they get down.
I take Nick to the center of the dance floor.
Our dancing is more like jumping with some shuffling back and forth.
It’s the best we can manage while drunk.
Mostly, it’s an excuse for us to touch each other.
His arms around my shoulders, my hands on his hips going up to his back, quick kisses here and there.
His smile lights me up, makes everyone around us disappear.
I was never much of a dancer. I spent school dances and club nights on the sidelines, watching my friends use their swagger to get the girls.
Tonight, I lead. I’m drunk on holiday-themed beverages and main character energy.
I get to dance. With my boyfriend.
Soon, Nick and I basically turn to slow dancing, even though the beat is still fast. We sway back and forth while the young’uns around us shake their groove thangs. I could stare into those big, beautiful eyes all night.
“Oh my God!” The girl from before who called us cute (and old people, but let’s ignore that one) comes up to us.
A young guy wearing Santa pants, red suspenders, and no shirt hands us a little league baseball trophy, an imposing tower of fake gold topped with a mold of a baseball player swinging away.
“We’ve selected you for the Best Couple Award,” the guy says.
“You are so cute!” The girl squeals.
“There are awards at the bar crawl?” Nick asks.
The girl and guy nod yes.
I turn the trophy over in my hands. It cost two bucks. It feels like the Stanley Cup to me.
“Thank you so much!” Nick hugs her, then the guy with no shirt. He points to me. “This is my boyfriend!”
The award givers share an “aw” look between them.
I hug Nick to my chest and plant a divine kiss on his lips, tasting the variety of alcohol he’s consumed tonight.
“Adorable!” she says.
“Congrats!” The guy pats us both on the backs.
“We did it, Hank!” Nick holds up the trophy, positively beaming. “We won the bar crawl!”
“We did.” I feel like a winner, and it’s not because of the trophy.