Rewrites

My hangover, a result not of the reception itself but afterhours bar carousing with my cousins, is encroaching on my reasoning ability. I nearly crack open the $5.00 Dannon water bottle - Put that down! - before remembering I was paying for this room, albeit at the discounted "wedding family" rate.
I think it was the smoking. Did I smoke in front of my brother? Shit.
I shield my eyes from the overenthusiastic sun as I follow my parents' van down Columbia Parkway and into the swanky neighbourhood that is the home of several professional athletes and business executives. I've always envied living there. I park my car and my brown oxfords sound a click against the cobblestone driveway.
I need a bloody mary. NOW.
My youngest aunt, Tete Bonnie, recognizes my bloodshot eyes immediately.
"Tim! Fix ya a bloody mary?"
"Yeah, thanks."
I nurse the salty drink, nibble unsuccessfully on my grandmother's baklava (an item I would have been scarfing down on any other occasion) and quietly observe my aunts and uncles joke around with their mother, my Baba.
I feel like shit.
Adrienne, Andy's younger sister, nudges me.
"You want any of this?"
She points at a plate of runny yellow egg-like substances.
Um, not so much.
She tells me its name, but it's long and complicated, like most Macedonian words, and it avoids my memory. In my state, it was all I could do to hold my breath and avoid smelling the concoction.
Is this really Baba's cooking? I'm usually devouring her stuff.
After noon, the crowd starts to disperse. I'm sticking around the city, because I'm meeting up with my friend Anne-Marie that evening. Anne-Marie was stuck in Cincinnati because she'd been visiting her terminally ill aunt Chris, while the rest of our friends were on a rafting trip in Tennessee. I'd promised her I'd hang out with her for the evening and, having a massive crush on her, anticipate the date.
She's not going to be home for another six hours. What do I do?
I elect to drive by Great American and see if I can score a Reds ticket. I do, and for five bucks I sip on overpriced beer and watch Cincinnati beat the Astros. It's a good game, and Aaron Boone, my favorite player, cranks a line-drive home run over the rightfield wall. It proves to be the only scoring of the game, and, for me, this day. The game ends quickly. I file out of the stadium with thousands of happy Reds fans.
Okay, two more hours to burn.
I attempt to avoid the traffic and find myself coursing around Eden Park, the highest point in Cincinnati. In places it provides a panoramic view of the Ohio River and the river banks of Kentucky, and I'm familiar with it due to several romantic exchanges with an ex-girlfriend having taken place there.
I miss her.
I park my car and grab my guitar, looking to take advantage of the gazebo, which overlooks a lake and fountain. A light rain is falling, and it seems like a perfect time to be creative.
I clumsily strum for ten minutes or so, when I'm interrupted by a loud group of people who enter my sanctuary. It looks like a family of maybe five young children and five adults. They're noisy and rude. I'm perturbed.
Get the fuck out!
They seem to be enjoying themselves and making fun of my nervous plucking. One of the men strides up to me.
"Whatcha playin' yo?"
"Umm, my guitar?"
"Yeah but what?"
"I don't know yet. I'm trying to be creative and write something."
"Ahh."
He shuffles away.
LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!
I contemplate leaving, as there are other gazebos in Eden Park, but I fear making it appear as if I'm leaving because I'm the skinny white guy threatened by the scary black people. So I stay and get little accomplished. Five minutes later, he approaches me again.
"Hey, give this a try."
His hand extends toward me, a poorly-rolled joint pinched between its fingers.
"Uh, no thanks. Maybe later."
"Your loss, buddy."
Ohmygod I need to get the fuck out of here.
I'm frozen by fear. I'm ashamed at my response. He returns yet again and this time, I accept his offer. I take an ever-so-slight hit of the joint and inhale hot smoke into my lungs.
Just play it cool, boy, real cool.
The toke clears the remnants of nausea that had inhabited my stomach since the morning, but does nothing for my creativity.
I can't feel my fingers.
Nervously, I gather my music, strap my guitar into its case, and quickly bid my neighbors goodbye. Teeth chattering in the cold rain, I rush to my car, toss the guitar case in the back seat, and settle behind the wheel.
Breathe, buddy, breathe.
I glance at the clock and realize I have another hour before I need to meet Anne-Marie. I merge onto I-71 and take the Montgomery Road exit, remembering a Starbucks is across the street from the Kenwood Mall. I need someplace warm, soothing, and open on this Sunday afternoon.
The perky barista recommends a new drink - the caramel macchiato. The ingredients sound good. I order a Venti.
At 6:45 I am going to call Anne-Marie.
I grab the Sunday Times and pretend to read it, interested more in the photos and relaxing into the soft leather of the loveseat I'm planted in. I glance at my watch.
20 minutes.
This obsessive clockwatching continues for a half hour before I finally strike up the courage to make the phone call.
"Hey, Anne-Marie?"
"Tim, what's up?"
"Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood and we'd talked about getting together, want to hang out?"
"Sure! You know how to get here?"
"Uh, no."
She gives me directions to her apartment down the street. The caffeine from the macchiato only serves to elevate my nervousness. After three months of cat-and-mouse, I am finally going to ask my longtime friend Anne-Marie if she's interested in. more than that. She's certainly sent the signals, and my friends haven't dissuaded me from breaching the subject with her, so I ought to have confidence.
Ugh. I feel like shit.
My insides rumble with indigestion and cramps.
Maybe they'll go away.
Anne-Marie greets me with a solid hug at her doorway, and invites me into her fashionable apartment. She takes great care to show me where she's placed the candle I purchased for her as a housewarming gift. We settle on the sofa and start one of the better conversations I've had in my life.
Jesus, I need to take a shit.
Clearly, my bowels were not cooperating with the caramel macchiato. I felt nauseous, and knew a trip to the bathroom would somewhat alleviate my situation.
I am NOT taking a noisy shit in Anne-Marie's bathroom right before asking her out.
The cramps continue and Anne-Marie finally notices.
"Oh, wow, your stomach's growling. You haven't eaten today! Come on, I'm taking you out to dinner."
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
At the very least, our jaunt to Arthur's, a Hyde Park restaurant, would give me the chance to evacuate myself. We settle into a booth and, after a few minutes, I excuse myself to the restroom.
I arrive and find it hasn't been cleaned in a very, very long time.
Maybe the women's bathroom is empty.
Colon screaming, I lurch back to the table.
"That was quick."
"Yeah."
Having zero appetite and a fatigued body, I pick at my black bean burger. Anne-Marie eats her soup quickly, and we head back to her place.
I need to fucking ask her out. Do it. DO IT NOW.
I don't. Instead, we talk another two hours.
The urgency of my parallel situations comes to a head, finally, when she mentions her exhaustion. I agree.
"Do you want to just sleep on my couch?"
"No, I'm staying at my friend Maggie's tonight," I lie. I fully plan on driving three hours back to Zanesville.
"Oh. Okay then."
MAKE YOUR MOVE.
"This was a really great conversation, I hope we can do this again sometime."
I look into her giant blue eyes and respond, "Yeah, me too. Maybe we can do it again as something more than we are right now."
Clearly, she'd been anticipating this all evening.
"Well, you know, I've been thinking about that with the distance and my work I just don't think us being anything other than friends would work right now. I hope you're not upset."
Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.
"No, of course not, I just wanted to make sure we were on the same channel about this."
Change the channel! Quick!
I escape the apartment in a flash.
Where's the closest public restroom WHERE IS IT
I elect to take my chances and use the first I-71 rest stop, north of Kings Island. It doesn't help much. I spend three days or so in gastrointestinal hell due to my "holding it in."
As it turns out, and unmentioned by the perky barista, 75% of the new caramel macchiato consists of milk.
Guess who's lactose intolerant?