Cantina Thursdays

Cantina Thursdays will always be one of the best things in my life.

I fear I may one day become sober and forget what it was we drank, or that I may get senile and forget the strangers - the ones who clasped my back and were proud to toast with me. If I were ever to become rich and forget how great a cheap beer can be I might wind up losing a core piece of myself, and in turn forget it all.

I'll forget that a low rent bar nobody cared for was home for the best times I had in college. That among its dirty tables and wet carpeting I could ever find myself becoming sentimental, especially about being crammed into a booth.

I could forget the soggy chips and bland dip, the cold food, the overly loud bad music, and the rude manager who was never there for fun. I'd like to forget having our chairs stolen and being forced to use makeshift tables from the odds and ends of every corner of the restaurant.

I'll be sad one day if I had forgotten Molly, our only friend there. We went to the worst bar in town, a place where we still couldn't fit in, but she made us feel wanted. She'd take our order and ignore everything else for a second longer then she was asked to, making us feel important enough or worthy enough to take a seat in a dump that would water down its beer. She'd wait on us and make small talk, and even though we had no way to prove our cool, she would let us slide on by without. But I fear I'll forget all about her, just like the name of the girl at recess who used to give me gum, or why the lunch lady in middle school who would always see I got an ice cream cone when my meal was finished.

So if I can, I'd like to choose now - while I'm drunk and in a talking mood - of what I'll remember and what I'll forget. I want to forget the strangers who crashed in uninvited, picking us up and knocking us around from table to table, stealing our pitchers, spilling their drinks in our hair, and mistaking us for somebody who mattered or gave a crap. I'll forget the ugly girls who latched on and wouldn't leave, and the good looking guys who took them away at last call. I'll forget all the things that didn't matter, the drama that didn't concern me, and the price tag for damage done at the end of the night.

But I won't forget how much it meant to sit at that table. Few things were reliable as that or comforting as that. Because when I do forget all but the traces of these nights, it won't matter where I was, or what I drunk, or if I felt comfortable. What I'll take with me is how much love could fit into a tiny booth, exist among so few people, and sustain a schmuck like me.