Remembering Saturday Nights
Matthew Ryan Fischer
It had been warm for a week, but suddenly the nights were chilly again.
Midseason misdirection and all that. Normally Justin welcomed cool weather,
jackets and long sleeves. But this year, Justin was experiencing a range of
aches and pains he wasn’t normally accustomed to. Justin’s right shoulder was
sore for no good reason. It was one of those things that could be connected to
the weather, or some mishap twenty years ago, or simply a part of getting
another day older. If he had injured it doing something recently, he certainly
couldn’t remember what.
Justin couldn’t help but think about his late father, who tore his
rotator cuff when he was sixty and was never the same again. Justin didn’t
think it was anything that dramatic, but he could tell his left arm was currently
able to life more weight than his right. He hoped it was nothing serious and
that a few weeks would do the trick. So far, it hadn’t. He was willing to wait
a few more weeks and see.
Years ago, Justin had a series of x-rays and MRIs when he lost
feeling in his left arm and all grip strength in his left hand. Inconclusive
results, theories ranged from pinched nerves and bone degeneration to cheap mattresses
and twisting and turning at night. He was given pain killers and a prescription
for physical therapy and told to take his time and take it easy.
Sometimes there are no answers no matter how good the science is. He
felt that way about his right shoulder now. He could wait it out. He remembered
his stretches from physical therapy. But things seemed faster last time, but he
could just be remembering that wrong.
Justin stood outside a corner restaurant at 52nd and
College. Decades ago, as a teenager there had been a grease pit wings and bbq place
here. Now it was Ethiopian. Times change for better or worse. No amount of
nostalgia could keep a business running. Justin didn’t know it at the time, but
the manager would sell weed out of the back door. Not even that helped.
Many of his friends worked there, and they would sneak free
mozzarella sticks to their other friends if the owner wasn’t around. Many great
times were spent there playing cards, video games, goofing off eating fries and
drinking too much soda.
There was supposed to be a reunion. Not a real reunion. Reunion
was the wrong word. It was to be a sad unhappy occasion where old friends hung
out after one of their own died too soon. Amber had fought cancer and beat
cancer more times than Justin could count, dating back to their high school
days. She was supposed to be immortal. No one is. The funeral was held on a
Thursday for some reason, probably to save a bit of money. But most people
couldn’t fly or drive or get time off work on a Thursday. It seemed reasonable to
have a toast on Saturday when more people could be there. Plus, it was an
excuse to visit some old haunts.
52nd and College was proving not to be one of them.
Justin sent a message on the group text. Perhaps there was a
better location. A bar in Broad Ripple, or the pool hall on Keystone. One of the
old places that was still around. That seemed more fitting.
It wasn’t even late yet, but the sun had gone down and Justin was
already feeling tired. Another one of the great gifts of time’s passage. Gone
were the days of staying up to watch the sun rise. There had been some really
good times doing that.
Justin tried to breathe some heat onto his hands and waited for a
reply. His back hurt. He thought about going back to the hotel. If he didn’t
hear from anyone in a few minutes he might. It sucked. He could put on a happy
face if he tried, but only if he was doing something. Standing around and
waiting let his mind wander and it was just a painful reminder of everything wrong.
Amber was too young. They were still three years away from their 30th
high school reunion. It wasn’t supposed to work like this. It was ridiculous how
old everybody had gotten. Grey hair and soft bellies and early bedtimes.
Saturday bars were for the young. Even the old haunts would be overrun if they
didn’t get things started soon.
Justin checked his phone again. Five new notifications. He didn’t
check them, but instead ordered a Lyft. His heart was pounding a little too
hard and his cheeks were flushed. He wanted to be sitting somewhere warm. He
could text in car.
No comments:
Post a Comment