Gravity

I woke up in my apartment with no phone or wallet. Apparently, I had driven home blackout drunk over a span of ninety miles. With dread, I realized I had to go back to Bremerton, because my phone and wallet were still over there. But more than that, there was an understood social contract stating that I had to be present for Geoff’s bachelor party no matter what. I grabbed a jar of quarters and my checkbook and drove back without GPS.

Of course, everything planned that day cost money. I had canceled my cards the night before, and so I had none. I offered to pay for the arcade with quarters, but everyone refused. Allowing me that small dignity would amount to grace I did not deserve. I had to be present because of the social contract, but that same rulebook dictates that everyone should pull their own weight.

So, George paid for things because someone had to, and nobody else wanted to be responsible for me. I could feel it every time his card came out. It wasn’t generosity. He wasn’t willing. He was just the unlucky one on whom that responsibility had fallen.

At the end of the night, I wrote George a check out of desperation to do something. I had the money in my account. That was irrelevant. He refused it, because it was unambiguously pathetic. I did not earn the privilege of his redemption. It wasn’t about the money. It was about humiliation. I needed to feel it. I deserved it. I needed to learn a lesson.

Ten years later, quite unexpectedly, George joined Geoff and me for coffee. He had asked Geoff for my permission to join us, which showed he remembered something of the rift. But once together, we became the same old friends we always were. He didn’t remember a thing about me from that day. He remembered the bachelor party fondly. He wasn’t making a statement. He genuinely didn’t give a fuck.

Apparently, the worst night of my life didn’t exist for anyone else. I had fixated on it for years, believing earnestly that it mattered. I am not sure it is relief that it didn’t. These days, I write off my alcoholic years as sunken costs. But it turns out their meaninglessness has a gravity of its own. It is heavier than the shame I thought I was carrying.