Series 2, Episode 3: ”Dreams”—Mark and Suzann Farmer (the best Fleetwood Mac cover ever)
Argentines will tell you that fernet is the only hangover-free liquor in the world. I’m going to tell you otherwise. Anything in excess of four fernet cocktails guarantees a night of bizarrely vivid dreams, followed by a throbbing headache and a weird herbal aftertaste that won’t disappear for days, despite the most furious toothpaste-and-mouthwash ritual.
But that evening, my first night in Buenos Aires, I hadn’t learned this yet. So I was tossing back fernet-and-Cokes (with real sugar, not high fructose corn syrup) with abandon. I spent the day drinking copious amounts of boozy coffees in an effort to combat the effects of a red eye flight from Philadelphia. As a result, I was jittery and sleepy, dazed and confused. I was speaking in an endless mostly-english, slightly-spanish slur. I hadn’t seen my best friend Reyna in six months, so there was a lot of catching up to do. I tried to break everything down into easily digestible bullet points while I sprawled on the bottom bunk in our hostel room, lifting my head only to take another gulp of my cocktail. I felt as if I was doing an excellent job of efficiently summarizing the last few months, when Reyna made a fatal error. “So what about this guy you’ve been seeing? You haven’t mentioned that yet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, that’s because I’ve decided I’m never seeing him again when I return to the Estados.”
Of course such a bold decision required an explanation.
Where to begin? There were so many reasons. I had cataloged them in meticulous detail on my flight to the southern hemisphere, until wine and homeopathic jet lag medicine tricked me into a sudden, dreamless sleep.
After our amazing first date, he had bailed on a second. The next day he confessed that he wasn’t ready to date because he was in the process of a divorce. I breathed a sigh of relief, mostly because I didn’t want anything to derail me from my hazy plan to move back to Portland. I knew that he had the power to keep me in Philadelphia. I’m sure some would describe a decision like that as “fate,” but I only saw it as a possible tragedy. We liked each other. He seemed funny and cool. He thought I was “radical.” There was something really extraordinary between us. So we vowed to be good friends.
Easy, right? Problem solved? Except, no. Because the next time we hung out, he turned to me with sleepy eyes and said, “I really want to kiss you.” And of course, I REALLY wanted him to kiss me. But no, no. That would have been wrong. I was secretly enjoying the deprivation, taking pride in my obviously intense willpower.
And then the next time I saw him, I slept in his bed. There was “heavy petting.” I woke up the next morning wearing his shirt, sleepy and sweaty, unable to pinpoint the difference between dreams and actual reality. I could smell him all over my clothes as I drove back to my apartment. A few nights later, the same thing. On and on and on. I knew I was playing a stupid game and I would never, ever win it.
The day I left for Argentina, he tried to chat with me via the internet. “I sort of think I’m crushing on Ohio girl, but whatevs, she’s 500 miles away.” Sure, I slept in his bed with him a few nights ago. And all he could do was talk about “how much” he wanted to finally have sex with me. But fine, fine…I was a grown woman AND I grew up in THE household of emotional repression. So playing the role of Understanding Friend was easy for me. I swallowed my pride and recited my lines with acute believability. “Well, would she move here? What do you think about that?” Etcetera, etcetera. I was (and always will be) a glutton for punishment.
“Fuck him,” I thought as I tossed back my second airline-sized bottle of wine, somewhere over Cuba.
Reyna was also coming to this conclusion, but I knew she needed one final story to push her over the edge.
I cleared my throat for dramatic effect. “This is a tale I like to call ‘The Birthday Conversation,’ or ‘Pull Yourself Together, Romeo.’”
We were at Johnny Brenda’s (one of my favorite establishments in Philadelphia) drinking bloody marys. Our plans for an epic afternoon bicycling adventure had been thwarted by his bike’s flat tire. He mentioned that his birthday was approaching.
Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit this, but I really love birthdays. I like baking special cakes and drawing silly cards and just generally making someone feel special. Ask any of my friends. And in a situation like his, freshly separated from his wife after a spectacularly awful year, it seemed like it could be a good turning point for him. A chance to start anew! So I asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday. “You should have a party! Or take a trip! Get a tattoo or buy yourself a grand present! Something to commemorate this occasion and make it seem like the start of a new phase in your life.”
Well, apparently this was a mistake. Two days later, we had to have a “talk.” While I bit the back of my hand in an effort to suppress the angry laughter trying to force its way out of my throat, he said, “When you talked about my birthday, it made me think that you think we are in a relationship.”
Yes. He really said that.
The acidic laughter finally spilled out of me in a hostel in Buenos Aires, on the other side of the planet. “Let’s hear it for dignity,” I cheered as Reyna and I toasted my decision to “never” see him again with yet another plastic cup of fernet.
I meant it. I really, really did.
