It's about 10:30pm, maybe eleven o'clock on a Friday. I'm sitting in bar where all the lights are tinted green, and there's a DJ playing a mixture of tunes that have been sampled, and tunes with said samples in them.

To my right are two of my good friends.  Before the three of us, on a little coffee table, is a collection of beer bottles, shot glasses, and little cards promoting the two-year anniversary of the green-tinted establishment in which we sit.  We're laughing, talking about nonsense, mocking songs like "PYT" by Michael Jackson, all while loving these melodies at the same time.

We've already dealt with the friendly, talkative girl at the bar, who clearly has stock in this club.  We talked with her about the silhouetted stripper on the tv monitors, dancing repetitively to whatever beat the DJ cranks out.  

The talker is a long lost friend, so long gone that you can't make out her face, but her warmth is so comforting and familiar, you can't help but wonder which one of your classes she was in.

Our trio is surrounded by the scene;  Twenty-somethings wearing expensive clothing, carrying real COACH bags, laughing and dancing.  Doing all the things that normal people do while dressed like fashion models.

"Are you seeing this?"  He's asking me.  

Not one of my friends.  Some guy at the bar.

I know he's not hitting on me; it's nothing like that.  He's not some sloppy drunk, either, nor is he one of the waitstaff.  He's just an ordinary guy, with no part of the scene visible on his well-worn clothing.  I do the ever-so-tv thing, looking around at anyone who might be facing his direction before pointing at myself with eyebrows raised, brow furrowed.   

He waves his glass in my direction, something that looks like a nod.   I excuse myself, and head through the growing crowd of preps.  Every barstool is occupied, except for the one beside my friend.  Of course, I haven't known him long enough to know whether or not he's really my friend, but, I guess it's kind of like the talkative girl seven or eight stools down;  They both feel like family in a weird sort way, even if you're maybe a little embarrassed for them.

"Shots?" he says to me.  "Seriously?"  Shaking his head now.

"I don't understand," I say.

"Since when do you do shots in a bar?" he barks.  He erupts into a fountain of laughter, shaking his head while nursing his drink.  I can smell it, and it's familiar, but I don't bother to place it.

He is younger than me. I don't know how much by.  He couldn't be more than 21 himself, really.  That smooth face, and youthful eyes that almost kind of glow.  Not in a luminescent way, but in an unfulfilled way.  Eyes that are hungry for life.

"I don't know," I said.  I feel called-out, but I can't explain why.  My face is flushing a bit, and it's harder to look him in the eye now.

"You didn't used to be like this,"  He says before taking another sip of his drink.  "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," I mumble.   The security blanket the alcohol had so gently placed over me had just slipped completely off, and here I am; too ashamed to be so vulnerable, too afraid to pick up what I'd lost.   "We just.. we came to the city, for drinks.  To get drunk, really," I smiled.

"But I don't understand why."  He says.  The condescending tone is faded now, into something more heartfelt, concerned.  "Fuck, man... I'm looking at you, and I can't even understand who the hell you are."

"I guess we're machines," I say.  I shrug and sip my beer.  I glance over at my friends, but they're too caught up in their liquor to really mind my absence.

"Fuck, you're machines," he says to me.  "But shit... why? Why are you like this?  You run on this shit.  You run for this shit.  You used to scale buildings in a single bound, but now you're barely making it.  And the only reason you're trying is for your next--"

"What makes you so fucking different?" I snap.   "You're not any better, you know, not really.  You're a fucking baby, guy.  And I'll tell you something, when you've lived a little bit longer, and you've seen a little bit more, and you've hurt a little bit more, you'll fucking understand a little better.

"I understand it perfectly," he began, but--

"You understand shit," I mutter nonchalantly.  "You understand uncatchable dreams, you understand unreachable goals, and you believe in impossible things.  You're fucking young, man, and everybody's been it. I get that.

"But you look at me and see this guy who gives up... it's not like that."

"Isn't it?" he says.  He's got a cigarette in his hand, which he lights and then hands to me.   I'm exhaling when it dawns on me that any of this has occurred, and it makes me feel ashamed, so I take another drag.

"Exactly," he whispers, all smiles now.  "I see you, buddy.  You dreamed these dreams, you imagined yourself so high, you reached for the fucking impossible every day, and the MINUTE somebody offers you something that'll give you a piece of satisfaction, there you are.  There you are, buying a round, havin' a beer, topping yourself off in the johns, filling the flask, sneaking tobacco, snorting your coke, popping your pills, fucking the faceless, eating your extasy, dropping your acid, shooting your heroin, getting more and more hollow by the minute.  You're this beautiful fucking guy with stars you aren't even willing to reach, and the only excuse you can muster is that you're older than me?  Bullshit.  You choose to be ordinary, but the best part is that you do it because it's easier to get yourself high and pretend."

It's all I can do to keep myself from breaking.  I can't breath. I'm angry but I don't know why, sick but I don't know why, shitfaced....and I don't know why.

There's a fly on the wall.  At such an inopportune moment I find this oddly amusing, and wonder what it thinks of all of this.

"I don't know what to tell you," I say at last.  "I don't know why I'm here any more than you do.   I know I'm drunk. I know I wanted to be. I know you're right, really.  I do.  But it's just not that easy.

"I'm just trying to get from point a to point b," I confess.  "I don't know how.  The straight line? That shit's a crock.  So I'm going my own way, little by little, and I don't really know if I'm getting myself lost, or going too far, or what.  I just know that when I started this, I was...  

"I'm just so tired," I say, exhale.  "I'm tired, and its hard not to feel defeated sometimes.   Sometimes its just that much easier to forget altogether, forget why I'm here, and what I feel, you know?  Sometimes I'd rather be somebody else, even if it's just some drunken asshole who thinks he's hot shit just because he's too numb to feel the weight of real life."

He sits a long time.  He stares at his empty glass.  Shirley Temple--it hits me, the smell.  I laugh some.

"I always did love those," I motion to his glass  He can't help but smile, all sheepish and childlike.  "From when I was a kid... it was at this seafood restaurant, I used to have them all the time and there were--"

"Twins?" he asks.  He gives me a look, at once hopeful, at once fearful and sad.  I lose my place for a moment.

"Twin waitresses, yes..." I'm uneasy now.

"They both knew you, and they would serve you shirley temples, with--"

"With a maraschino cherry," I finished.   We smile at eachother, but it's a polite smile now, on both our parts.  The way two friends who haven't seen eachother in years react when they've come upon one another; The understanding that there was something special there, coupled alongside the knowledge that you don't know one another from Adam in the present.

Everybody waiting for their cue to say goodbye.

"I feel like the ghost of Christmas past, or something," He says to me at last.

"Maybe you are," I say, smiling. "Christmas isn't so far off."

"I wanted more, I guess," he wanes.  "I hoped for more by now...by then... well, by you."

"I still want more, you know. I'm not waving any flags, here."  I give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.  "It's like I said.  I'm trying to get to point b...  It's going to take a lot longer than you thought.  It's not going to be the cakewalk you expected.  And it's going to hurt like hell a lot of the time.

"But we're optimists, you and I," I smile.  "We always survive.  That's the good thing."

I can see he's upset.  I can feel it so strongly that it upsets me as well.  I'm looking at this kid, feeling a piece of him die, and yet knowing how much of me it will take with it over time.  

"I know it's not the end," he starts.  "I know it won't be easy, but I've... I've just never been very patient."

"I know," I laugh.  "And that part isn't going to change, trust me!"

"Would you make me a deal?" He asks.  I look back to my friends. They make all sorts of commotion, as if they've been anticipating the moment I turn around.  They're waving me over.  

"I have to go," I say, getting up.

"Wait!" he shouts.  He grabs my sleeve, and I can feel the strength in his fingers. I imagine they'd leave marks.  "Make me a deal.  Please."

"Well... okay," I say, wary.

"Don't tell them who I am," he says.  "They really don't need to know about this."

I laugh.  "They would flag me if I told them about this, you realize."

"That, and... just... please... don't forget me.  I know there's a lot going on right now. I know it's hard enough to remember who you are now, but... just remember who you were sometimes.  Keep me alive. "

"Sure," I promise.  I go to turn away, but stop short.  "But why?" I ask.

"Well," he smiles, "it looks like you're all I've got."  We share a laugh, nice and genuine.

"And if you never find a place for me again... well, just remember to forgive him."

"Him? I ask.

"Well... if I can forgive you."  

I understand at once.

"Promise," I say.  I move to leave the bar, but he grabs me again, his arms around mine in a hug.

For a minute I can't even tell us apart.  I feel like the world is my oyster instead of the spent shell that everybody else got to first, and I don't ever, ever want to let us go.  

"This was all I needed," he said, finally.  "Remember?"

"Oh," I smiled.  "Sometimes, maybe not as often, but sometimes, it still is."