To Drunken Puritans!

There is absolutely nothing I hate about Mexican Restaurants. I love the bold vibrant colors, the drums, the trumpets, the art, the complimentary chips and salsa and the margaritas (heavy emphasis on the margaritas). Well, actually, I could do with out the roosters. I always wondered what the obsession was with roosters in Mexican art. Apparently, cock fighting is big money in Mexico and to have pictures of roosters is a symbol of wealth. Well, let me explain the American connotation surrounding roosters: I picture a fat, Bible thumping, homely woman dressed in denim, hanging quilts on her walls like fine art, and displaying rooster decoys around her plain country home. All so she can home school her weird kids while needle-pointing pictures of apples or humming birds in the evening. That does not make me feel good at all; that makes me feel like stabbing myself. So, I guess minus the roosters, Mexican restaurants are heaven on earth to me.
The bartender gives me a familiar smile. Javier is his name and he knows how to make a drink! Even though he speaks Spanish and I speak English, right now we’re both speaking the same language. Si, I say with a guilty look on my face. Javier doesn’t judge me, besides, I drink every Thursday. I meet my best friend Brian every week, same time, same place. We fill up on greasy homemade chips, endless bowls of salsa, and ice cold cocktails. It’s a celebration for several reasons: First of all, it’s Thursday, and we’ve decided that when we take over the world, Thursday will be the last work day of the week. Secondly, because we’re in a Mexican Restaurant and that immediately makes we want to salsa dance. And last, but not least, because we have so much damn fun getting all buzzed up and celebrating our friendship. Inevitably, we will rediscover at some point in the night that we are the most hilarious people in the world, and that nobody else could possibly understand the depths within us. I think I’ll drink to that!
Brian and I have been friends since my first year of college, eight years ago. It’s sweet how we met, really. We were at a mutual friend’s party. We were all mostly eighteen and had just moved out of our parents houses. All the girls at the party were wearing skin tight shirts ranging in shades of light pink and white-- all colors meant to accentuate that perfect shade of orange they had tanned themselves to. The guys were all wearing parachute pants and baggy shirts. Of course that was before skin tight muscle shirts made their come back (thank God). Nonetheless, we were all there to drink cheap canned beer, make new friends, and maybe get laid. And, yes, in that order. Awe, those were the days. I think I’ll drink to that, too.
Anyway, I got bored at the party and I was dying for some fun conversation. So, I decided to go fishing. That’s what I do in crowds of people, I fish. I quote some of my favorite movies or comedians and I wait for somebody to bite. After a couple of basic Ghostbusters lines and a Devil’s Advocate quote, I decided that I needed to get serious if I was going to get a good fish. So I did it, I busted out a Rushmore line, “I saved Latin. What did you ever do?” and there he was, my beautiful rainbow trout emerging from the sea of faces. We spent the next several hours of the night quoting movies and getting to know each other, until we were both got so intoxicated by it all, that we either needed to sleep or eat. We raided the house we were in and stole some poor freshmen’s theater butter popcorn. Brian gave me the couch and he took the floor, like the chivalrous knight he is, and I fed him handfuls of popcorn until we fell asleep. Ahhh, I drank to the memory.
Javier notices my movement and is excited about my margarita enthusiasm. He gives me a thumb up and raises his eyebrows for a confirmation. I raise my right thumb; then my left thumb pops up; then my eyebrows raise as if in conversation with his. Accompanying my movements was a large over eager looking smile (all the while I’m nodding with an inappropriate amount of vigor, and repeating a string of si, si, si. . .). I’m such an asshole. One simple, solitary thumb up would have sufficed. Now, not only does Javier think I’m an alcoholic, he probably thinks I’m on speed. Where is Brian? I need another drink.
I know what you’re probably thinking by now: You’re thinking that Brian and I fell madly in love- or at least ended up doing the “grown up” a time or two. Well, contraire mon frere! Our relationship took a violent turn towards a sarcastic laden friendship. I never grew attracted to his physical attributes. Brian is short with light green eyes and blond hair. His skin is an unhealthy shade of white, which is covered with ripe looking acne-- acne that always looks ready to be tended to, but never is. He’s built awkwardly, with a skinny chest and legs, and a pregnant looking belly. Despite is physical set backs, he still manages to be the most arrogant person alive. However, I suppose arrogance can act as a clever ruse at times. Besides, I shouldn’t be so rude. I took a reprimanding drink, pretending it was a proper punishment for my wicked thoughts. I think I have had too much to drink already. Where is Brian?
Javier notices my chip dish is getting dangerously low. He’s so attentive. I’m kind of embarrassed that I’ve eaten so many chips already. I look down at my stomach, which is my least favorite part of my body. I snicker to myself because I realize why they call it a spare tire. I only snicker for a moment before I start tugging at my shirt, hoping to find the perfect camouflaging position. I get so annoyed with my stomach when I think about. I wish for the whole restaurant to come to attention. The music volume will slowly rise as patrons begin clapping along to the trumpet beat. All the employees will cease working and put on the sombrero they pass out for birthday’s and watch me as I hula dance. For my hula, I want to grab the spare tire and stretch it, pull it out and away from my body into a perfect hula-hoop circle. Then, once I’ve got the flab right where I want it, I’ll hula. I’ll hula such a hula, that the whole restaurant will stop laboring, patrons will stop eating. I will hula in unison to the loud Spanish music and high five families as they watch my beautiful dance. Children will smile as if it’s Christmas and dads will lift the smaller ones so that they might see, too. And then (because even the best hula-hooper can’t hula forever), I’ll let the unwanted lard begin to droop slowly over my hips, down my legs, and finish on the floor. Then, I’ll step victoriously out of the stomach flab hula-hoop, and walk away a very slender women. Everyone in the building will applaud vigorously; glad they came there that night. If only it were that easy. I wonder if they have diet margaritas. Where is Brian?
Tequila makes me mean and I’m beginning to get irritated at my friends punctuality problems. This celebration is about to get rowdy. It doesn’t help that I know exactly what he’ll say when he gets here. He’ll walk up with a very friendly, “hey darling.” Then I’ll say, “Where in the hell have you been?” Then you know what that asshole will tell me? The same thing he’s been telling me for years. That he’s been training ninja’s. He never tells me what really makes him so late every Thursday. Instead, he regales me with a bullshit story about a ninja training camp, where he’s building an army of silent, deadly attackers. When he first told me this, I just made fun of him. I suggested that maybe a week or two without roll-playing or comic books might do him a bit of good. Then, as time went on, my curiosity starting flaring up, so I started prying. “No, really, what do you do all afternoon? Why are you always so late?” One day he posed the question, “What if I really do have a ninja training camp?” I haven’t asked again and I have to admit, I do sometimes wonder if he’s running a ninja training camp. What an asshole. I think I might punch him in the face when he gets here.
I’m bored waiting and I’m actually quite drunk, and even though I hate shots, I’m thinking it sounds like a good idea right now. Should I feel guilty that I’m drunk, in public, and alone? Emily Dickinson was a drunk; she was also a devout puritan. That settles it! I will have a shot! As Javier pours my shot he turns so I can’t see the worm. He knows I feel sorry for the little guy. I raise my shot glass and as I do, warm, sticky tequila covers my fingers, “To drunken puritans!” I exclaim to anyone who cares. Javier is moved, once again, by my enthusiasm and raises his fist with me. Javier gets me; he has no idea what I just said.
“Did you just cheer to drunken puritans?” “Well, Captain Punctuality himself,” I say with a look of contempt which all too quickly fades into revived excitement. “You’re lucky you didn’t get here any later, Javier was getting ready to steal me away.”