I definitely need a ginger ale. That was kind of an epic fail.

Oh, the morning after question: why, WHY did I feel the need to drink that much Fernet? (Fernet can be interchangeable of course, but the same sentiments apply). Only to be followed by the question: why, WHY CAN'T I SLEEP IT OFF!? 


Stupid grown up job has me on some retarded internal clock that I can't shut off, therefore I'm still up at 8 and decide it's probably in my best interest and those around me to shower and scrub the perpetual booze smell off me before stepping out and running errands. 


In the mean time, I'm going to sip my Canada Dry and relate to you the kind of epic fail portion that titles this post. 


It seems that in my growing late age, I've become that person. You know the one I'm talking about. The person posted up at the local watering hole alone, sipping on whatever their weapon of choice is, casually glancing at their phone or the game that's on so as not to seem completely and utterly unqualified for company and just sitting. That's it, sitting. 


[Note: In my defense, my sister and her friend were supposed to meet me but bailed after realizing they were already too intoxicated to walk the 3 blocks to the bar and join me.]


And so there I was, staring at the silent TV while eavesdropping at the soon to be one night stand unfolding next to me thinking half thoughts of "Wow, did he really just say that? Did she buy it? Yep, she bought it." and "I really shouldn't skip that interview tomorrow but I don't know if I could really endure another summer campy kind of summer, and I know they aren't going to give me the assistant camp director position so why bother...." when down plops joe schmo next to me. He orders a drink, takes a look around to size the now dwindling 12:45 am crowd and nurses his beer. 


Knowing his intentions are clearly to start a conversation but waiting to (a) not seem entirely desperate and (b) find his easy in, I start counting to myself.


1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi, 5 Mississippi. All the while, my eyes trained on sports center. Something about the A's come on, I temporarily lose track of counting. 


"Don't tell me you come here just to watch sports?" Joe Schmo finally finds his in. Dammit, what was that? 20 seconds? Why did I let myself get distracted?  


"No, I came to get a drink with my sister but she couldn't make it." I say into my shot glass, sipping off the top before reaching for my coke.


"You were pretty convincing there for a minute. I thought you were an A's fan by the way you were following along."


Oh, God. Not this conversation. Anything but this conversation. I raise my eyebrows as confirmation of his statement rather than continue down the path of "let's talk baseball stats."


I fold my hands over the bar and go back to eavesdropping. 


"So, whatcha drinking?" Schmo tries again. Even in the half yell, half jute box noise filtering around the small bar, I can't hide my sigh and I hear him chuckle. This isn't going very well and he knows it. He curses himself in Spanish. Hmm, so white boy knows Spanish? I call him out on it.


"Aha, so you're Spanish then."


"Mmm, not quite. Not from Spain. And were you trying to guess?" 


"No, I mean you're Hispanic." 


I cringe. 


"Latina. I'm Latina." In the haze of my boozed up state, I disregard how pompous that sounds and shrug. 


"Where from?"


"Guess." How I love this game! 


"Give me a clue, say something."


I point to the trash can. "Zafacon." I check if that registers. Nope. I point to the orange juice on the back bar. "Jugo de china." Still nothing. I scratch my head and think. 


"Amarillos." I say, careful to place the accent on the "ll" in our notorious "j" way.


"I give up." Schmo replies, dumbfounded. I sigh again, this time louder. 


"We are the greater of the lesser Antilles, and the lesser of the greater Antilles. Our home is a mere 100 miles by 35 miles, and yet we have some of the most diverse landscape. Mountains, desert, beaches, rain forest." I muster in my best impersonation of my mother's thick accent when it is she comes across another foreigner and feels the need to boast.


Schmo's eyes are glazed over, his mouth slightly agape. I feel like I'm in a terrible Disney movie. 


"I'm Puerto Rican." He's just another moron who thinks the island is next to New York or Alaska or somewhere nowhere near the Caribbean, I think. I finish the rest of the shot and suck in my lips at the sting of alcohol before dousing my mouth with a swig of coke. 


The conversation is dying, I contemplate if I want to sit next to him through another shot or head home. Booze wins, I order another shot. 


"My girlfriend worked on Vieques trying to win rights for the families there." I nearly fell off my stool as I spun around to make eye contact with Schmo. 


"What was that you said?" I heard clearly, but I'm elated to know that not only is he not trying to pick me up, but that we might actually be on to a good conversation.  


"After all the bombings and stuff, she went down there to help try and figure out how to clean the water and get people treated."


It seems that now my mouth is agape. 


"What do you think the solution is?" He asked, casually taking a sip from his beer while settling into the worn cushion whose stuffing is spilling out along the duct tapped seams. I take the whole second shot in one go as I think about what to say next.


For nearly an hour we sat, arms flailing and hands pounding the bar in a passionate display of who has wronged who and how we move forward. The bartenders turn off the TVs and start sweeping up popcorn, the frequent patrons button up their coats and head out into the cold Temescal night. It was time to go home. I shook Schmo's hand feeling less inclined now than before to call him that. I dip out through the front door and pull my cardigan closer before starting the walk home. 


After block 1, as the buzz started to wear off I realized how much of a bitch I had been. Who was I to judge someone who lived 4,000 miles away from a place and consequently knew nothing about it? Shit, I don't know anything about the issue that plague Montana, or Alabama, so does that make me any less than a person? It's easy to realize how passionate I am about my heritage (obviously), but why should I snub my nose any someone who doesn't take part in that same passion? 


Jesus, am I becoming a hipster now? Only instead of fixed gear bikes and beards, it's a country. A place. My home. The greater of the lesser Antilles, and the lesser of the greater Antilles!


I didn't even catch the guy's name.


I looked in the direction of the King Fish before calling Lopez from the box to let me in and huddled close to the door waiting for the click.