Light My Fire
The first St. Patrick’s Day after September 11th was predictably insane. I hadn’t actually celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in years. I had done the parade and the requisite drinking one or two years when I first moved ere, but after that I lost interest. Anything that popular and crowded generally fails to hold my interest.
But the St. Patrick’s Day after September 11th was different. Any excuse to indulge in public drunkenness was embraced. I thought arriving at the neighborhood bar at around 1 pm would be early enough, but there were people who had been waiting for a seat at 10 am. Luckily, I was grabbed by a couple of hot firemen, and space was made. Hot drunk firemen. To me this was the equivalent of the Playboy Mansion.
One fireman, John, was particularly taken with me. He got me a Guinness and after about fifteen minutes of conversation he said, “Let’s get married.” “Sure,” I said. “No I mean it. There’s a bus to Atlantic City. Let’s get married.” “I’m saying OK.” “But where would we live? I mean I live in Westchester. Would you move there?” “Why not?” “I’m serious. I have a beautiful house.” “So am I.” “You don’t believe me.” At which point he dragged me out of the bar, called a number on his phone and said, “Hi Dad, this is the girl I’m going to marry,” and put me on the phone.
His father was predictably upset. I assured him that we weren’t going to do anything crazy like get married. I told him his son was being well looked after by his friends and not to worry. I hung up the phone. “Let’s go get married,” he said. “Why don’t we go on a date first?” I asked him. “Oh,” he responded balefully, “that never works.”
John kept trying to get me to marry him, I told him I couldn’t marry him that night, I had promised his father. “Well, what are you doing this weekend?” “I didn’t have any plans.” “Let’s get married this weekend.” “OK” I said to him. At around six at night his friends carted him home, but he took my number. Before he left, he kissed me long and deep. He was a good kisser even as drunk as he was.
He never called.
I’ve never admitted this, but the truth is if he had called, I would have married him.
But the St. Patrick’s Day after September 11th was different. Any excuse to indulge in public drunkenness was embraced. I thought arriving at the neighborhood bar at around 1 pm would be early enough, but there were people who had been waiting for a seat at 10 am. Luckily, I was grabbed by a couple of hot firemen, and space was made. Hot drunk firemen. To me this was the equivalent of the Playboy Mansion.
One fireman, John, was particularly taken with me. He got me a Guinness and after about fifteen minutes of conversation he said, “Let’s get married.” “Sure,” I said. “No I mean it. There’s a bus to Atlantic City. Let’s get married.” “I’m saying OK.” “But where would we live? I mean I live in Westchester. Would you move there?” “Why not?” “I’m serious. I have a beautiful house.” “So am I.” “You don’t believe me.” At which point he dragged me out of the bar, called a number on his phone and said, “Hi Dad, this is the girl I’m going to marry,” and put me on the phone.
His father was predictably upset. I assured him that we weren’t going to do anything crazy like get married. I told him his son was being well looked after by his friends and not to worry. I hung up the phone. “Let’s go get married,” he said. “Why don’t we go on a date first?” I asked him. “Oh,” he responded balefully, “that never works.”
John kept trying to get me to marry him, I told him I couldn’t marry him that night, I had promised his father. “Well, what are you doing this weekend?” “I didn’t have any plans.” “Let’s get married this weekend.” “OK” I said to him. At around six at night his friends carted him home, but he took my number. Before he left, he kissed me long and deep. He was a good kisser even as drunk as he was.
He never called.
I’ve never admitted this, but the truth is if he had called, I would have married him.
posted by Bad Bunni at 11:00 AM
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