The Heart of Saturday Night
by Bob Hill • July 16, 2008
People meet.
They fall in love.
The falling in lasts four minutes.
The falling out lasts forever.
And perhaps that’s the way it’s supposed to be. People meet. They unmeet. They spend the rest of their lives avoiding one another in malls. The world keeps spinning round.
But what about those relationships that actually mean something? It doesn’t really matter what that something is. The point is there was something that meant more than all the other somethings that came before or after.
It sort of sucks when a relationship like that turns a pale shade of shit. And it sucks even more when the phone-calls-turned-emails are reduced to one-sentence texts.
Perhaps that’s what a young bartender named Brian Flanagan meant when he said, “Everything ends badly. Otherwise, it wouldn’t end.” Smart guy, that Flanagan. He eventually went on to open his own bar in Queens called “Cocktails & Dreams.” Patrons called him the world’s last barman poet.
That’s rich.
But the death of something good is no laughing matter. If it were, the world wouldn’t need barman poets. It wouldn’t need Joey Greco or Jennifer Weiner. The world wouldn’t need double shots of Rumple Minze (or at the very least I wouldn’t).
If the death of something good were a laughing matter, the perennially single among us wouldn’t need those moments of clarity that occur just before dawn on a Sunday morning—soused to the gills, Bass Ale in one hand, Parliament Light in the other, sitting alone on the floor, sifting through a sea of CDs, wondering how things went so terribly wrong, and trying desperately to put them right.
***
I had my heart broken once.
And it hurt… a lot.
So I drank… a lot.
I drank at the juke joint just down the street, where it was one for my baby (and one more for the road). I drank while killin’ the blues with Chris Smither and sharing a lover’s prayer with Otis Redding. I drank while Diana Ross promised that someday we’d be together.
I drank in my apartment because sometimes keeping your chin up and focusing on other things just ain’t enough. I drank because I wanted to experience the pain of losing her again, to feel something other than the nothing I was feeling every day.
I drank because drinking was a short-term solution to a long-term problem. But it was also a perfect companion on those long nights spent pining for something that was no longer mine to have. Drinking made my darkest hours burn a little brighter.
And here is what I learned: Desolation—experienced in small doses—really ain’t that bad a thing.
Other people may try to convince you otherwise, but trust me, they’re wrong. Desolation gets a bum rap because most people don’t like to admit how nice it is to be left alone. When I’m fortunate enough to have those moments alone—moments that generally occur in the confines of my apartment shortly after 4am—there’s nothing more redeeming than turning the volume way past 10 and rocking out to the Who’s Quadrophenia.
***
I rarely listen to Quadrophenia when I’m in a relationship. Why would I? Being in love is all about Herman’s Hermits and the Foundations. Being in love is about turning in early and Sunday morning coffee over Meet the Press.
Quadrophenia is about the struggle for identity and acceptance and the resentment a lack of either of those things brings to the surface. Quadrophenia is pounding drums and freefall windmills. Quadrophenia is late night air guitar and passing out on the living room floor—CD jacket resting on your chest.
Quadrophenia’s the quintessential rock record for single, ugly dudes. Think I’m wrong? Then you’re obviously not a single, ugly dude. Or maybe you’re a chick I used to date. Most of the women I’ve dated hated Quadrophenia, which—in large part—may explain why none of those relationships ever worked out.
