I took a seat at the bar inside the Delta lounge at Tampa International next to the last person I wanted to see. Ryan Reynolds. Hawaiian shirt and swarmy Hollywood smile. Seriously, I wasn’t in the mood for his shit today.
I prayed my flight to L.A. stayed on time. Means I’d be airborne and on my way to attend my ex-wife’s wedding before 10 a.m., well within my self-imposed alcohol prohibition time. On the plane, I’d take a Xanax to sleep. I never mixed alcohol and pills. I was as strict on that as maintaining my morning sobriety. If I got on the plane, if I didn’t touch any alcohol, if I got a Xanax in me, I could leave Reynolds and this bar behind.
The bartender, a grey-haired woman with a friendly smile, asked what I wanted but didn’t bother asking my smirking companion sitting next to me.
“Whiskey!” Reynolds demanded. “Make it a doub—”
“No! Seltzer with lime, please,” I shouted over him.
“Aggressive,” the bartender said, ignoring Reynolds and pouring my seltzer, “but I got you.”
I jerked a thumb in Reynold’s direction and gave a look that conveyed, apologies for my asshole friend, when an airport announcement played.
“Will the passenger who left behind a child’s Croc come to security to retrieve your sandal.”
“Want to see if it fits?” Reynolds deadpanned, wiggling his brown leather boot in my direction. “Could be our Cinderella moment, sweet prince.”
I accepted my seltzer from the bartender and dropped the lime wedge into the glass. The carbonation fizzed on my tongue. I was very thirsty. “I’m good, guy.”
“Me too. I’m a good guy,” Reynolds quipped, hopping onto the bar and crossing his legs, pretending to smooth an imaginary skirt over his knees. He fluttered his hand at me. “Although I always play more of an anti-hero. You know what that is?”
“Oh yeah, that’s what I am. Ask my daughter.”
Reynolds laid prone on his stomach on the bar. Kicked his feet and rested his chin on his intertwined fingers. “Pray tell, how is the fruit of your loins making out with her daddy issues? She a stripper, yet?”
“She’s seven you ass.”
“Seven? Still? So what you’re saying is she has options? Nice. Anyhoo, flying in for the ex’s remarriagification, right? Who’s the lucky human dildo?”
The bartender made haste to the other side of the bar like she was used to seeing all sorts of crazies in the lounge and wanted nothing to do with us.
“Don’t know. Never met him.”
“He didn’t ask your permission for her hand? No call? No text? Dick Pic? What’s this fella working with is what I’m asking?”
“Me and the ex have been…estranged.”
“Women are complicated. Remind me. What were the grounds for divorce? Did you not tongue dart her fartbox?”
“The drinking,” I said, raising my seltzer to my lips.
“Ah, I’m a teetotaller myself!” Reynolds said sliding off the bar. He tapped a nostril. “Except the odd snoot toot of Columbian booger sugar.”
Will the passenger missing a pair of samurai swords please come to the security desk.
The bartender shot a look down her nose at us from across the bar.
“Not me, sweetheart,” Reynolds said. “All my weapons are in checked baggage.” He turned and whispered in my ear, “Although, I do like to hide my car keys way up in my poop pouch to keep TSA on their toes going through the metal detector. Last time, they almost ran out of rubber gloves.”
“I just need to get on the plane sober,” I said finishing my seltzer. “If I don’t drink by ten a.m., I don’t drink at all.”
“Good. You don’t want a repeat of your daughter’s fifth birthday party.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“What do you remember?”
“Farm theme.”
“What about the projectile vomit while barebacking a pony.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And bareback as in you had no pants on.”
My head hung like a stone on my neck.
Reynolds sighed. “Ducks were trampled.”
“Enough! Give me a break. I haven’t touched anything in three months.”
“Since the ex made you a deal. Wedding invite. See your daughter. If you stay sober.”
“If I stay sober,” I said, rubbing both sides of my empty glass like a genie lamp.
Will the passenger who left an astonishing amount of Viagra and Looney Toons VHS tapes please come to security to retrieve your items.
“Well, those are mine. Bugs Bunny in drag. Mmmmmmm. Gotta go,” Reynolds said, patting me on the back. “Hey, you going to be alright, cowboy?”
“I hope so.”
“That’s good. Except one teensy question if I may be so bold.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why would a recovering alcoholic choose to sit at the bar?”
“DO YOU EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP?”
The bartender snapped her head in my direction. She looked at my empty glass before approaching me with a guarded expression.
“Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you,” I said.
Above the bar, a screen displayed the statuses of every Delta flight across the board switching to DELAYED.
“Can I get you something else,” the bartender asked, following my gaze. “Looks like you might be here awhile.”