Absinthe to Abstinence

Jackson and I decided we would enjoy the park the next day, and we headed back to the Flying Pig. We went up to the room for more rest, and we came across two American guys about our age. They were Yankees to a tee. One was short, kind of chunky, with a black goatee. He was sporting jeans, a funky T-shirt, and a Mets hat. He was much more forthcoming than his partner in crime. American number two was slightly taller, skinny, and very quiet. As we entered the room, the bigger one called out, “Hey youse guys, what’s your names?” I had this deep-down disdain for northerners. Being from the South, we still believed the Civil War was not over. Enjoying a slower pace of life and speaking with a drawl were all pluses in my book. There was no substitution for southern hospitality. Being stuck in the machine of the North just didn’t make sense to me. Maybe I was naïve, but cutting another guy off at the knees to make a buck was not my cup of tea. And who doesn’t drink sweet tea? Granted, I was young, but the narrow-mindedness of my upbringing was deeply embedded. I mustered enough resistance to my natural instincts and gave these two individuals a chance. Sort of. “My name is Cam and this here is Jackson,” I said back to him in a strong Southern accent. “Oh yeah? My name is Ross. This is Chuck. We’re from New York City. I can tell youse guys is from the South. You like the Braves?” His Mets hat screamed obnoxious fan, but I couldn’t abandon my beloved Atlanta Braves. I thought I’d get a jeer out. I spoke in a strong twang to start the friendly banter. Reinforcing the stereotype on my side was only fair. “Hell yeah, I like the Braves. Ain’t you tired of that country ass whoopin’ they give y’all every year?” “Man, we fucking hate the Braves. That Chipper Jones is a chotch.” “Chipper is a damn legend, son.” I wished I had a dip in to spit for emphasis. “He just a good ol’ redneck with a knack for tossin’ the cueball around the yard. Secret’s in the dirt. I reckon this ain’t gone be no argument worth fightin’ over.” “So I’m high as balls,” Jackson interrupted. There was an awkward moment of silence and then some laughing. The Yankees were stoned too. “Well, we goin’ yonder after supper to check out them hussies in the Red Light District. Heard you can’t come here without at least seeing it,” I said in midlaugh. “Girl, show me that squirrel! Know what I mean, Ross?” I slapped him on the butt just to freak him out. “Oh yeah. There’s some hot cakes over there,” Ross said. I responded quickly under my breath, “Like the bulldogs up North, I’m sure.” Jackson heard me and giggled. Before Yankee Doodle caught on, I quickly continued, “Well, you gentlemen are more than welcome to join us.” Being sarcastic was always my specialty, and I really liked to see how far I could take it. I basically had a terrible habit of lying, but I justified it as imaginative conversation. My favorite conversations occurred when meeting someone for the first time. Gullible people were so much fun to mess with. I never truthfully engaged in the initial topics of hometown, major, job, and the God-forbidden name-dropping game. I focused on more implausible and questionable situations. I just conveyed them with such seriousness; the other party couldn’t help but believe me or get really confused. One of my favorite personas was a partying, jet-cruising Canadian plumber. I used this personality multiple times with girls when going to the beach during college. Meeting someone new at a party usually included a boring conversation. When asked what I did, I’d say I was a plumber from Canada and just flew in for the party. People’s initial reaction tells a lot about their personality and level of acceptance. Some would frown and look down on me with disdain. Others would get thoroughly confused, and I enjoyed my own internal laughter because that person was soaking in my complete bullshit. I would continue that I had a flight at two in the morning to get back to work on Sunday. Sometimes I would tell them I set a record for the company by unclogging twenty-four toilets in twenty-four hours. Then, I’d just end the conversation and go back to my friends like nothing happened. Other times, I’d say my name was Bubba, and I just got out of prison. If I was holding a can of beer, I would claim that I would never drink from a bottle again; too many bad memories. I’d say I didn’t believe in bars of soap anymore either. Part of my rehabilitation was to read Bingo numbers at the elderly homes; I had seen many decrepit people jump out of their wheelchairs to claim their winnings. Sometimes I claimed to be an interpretive dance instructor for deaf kids. I would show some emotion, claiming that I loved those little buggers. I’d say I majored in basket weaving in college but I developed a cocaine problem because I needed to stay up all night to complete the weaving in time. I’m not really sure why I got such pleasure out of doing this. Maybe the truth just wasn’t exciting enough for me. Every once in a while, there would be someone quick enough to catch on. They would play along, and it made for an inside joke that we could both share. One time I told a girl I was a big black man named Tyrone. She pretended she was an Asian named Victoria. The night turned out well. In between the sheets, I would say, “Tyrone needs some sugar.” Creepy? Possibly. Memorable? Absolutely. I guess she always fantasized about being with a big black man. Most of the time, I never really got around to telling the truth. It was a good way to weed through the ordinary folks, and people always seemed to remember me the next time I saw them. Regardless of the thrills and memories these escapades brought, I hadn't fully developed a conscience and vaguely understood the concept of conviction. Inevitably, time would take care of that.