2009-10-12

My Ghost

On Friday night, I went out to see some rockabilly played by two of my oldest friends, Jon and Jim. They were playing at The Cantab, in the downstairs room.

Oy. The Cantab.

At the end of my drinking, I didn't have a place where everybody knew my name. I drank alone (although in fairness, I drank alone even in a room full of people), in my apartment, sitting on the couch with my bottle and my headphones and the same 2 or 3 CDs that I'd play over and over again.

But before all of that mess, I was a regular somewhere. The Cantab.

It was the early-to-mid-nineties. I wore flannel and gobs of cheap black eyeliner and wound up with a glorious group of freaks indeed. We staged insane, booze-fueled cabarets in the basement of The Cantab and invited people to witness our debauchery. We sang Tom Waits songs, accompanying ourselves with sheet metal. We dropped the c-bomb frequently and with gusto. We drank with each other, and we drank AT each other.

I won't lie -- it was a HELL of a lot of fun.

It's odd to return to the scene. Odd to be in a place where your drinking was certainly probably a teeny bit out of control, but seemed normal at the time. And odder still to sit in a room and be haunted by your own ghost.

I saw myself at the bar, drinking absurd amounts of tequila. I saw myself on the stage, playing a country-western version of Prince's "Darling Nikki" and caterwauling like a hick banshee. And when I went into the ladies' room, I gasped.

That tiny little stall. Bracing myself on the sink and giggling and thinking "I'm sooooooo drunk!" Looking in the mirror and applying more black eyeliner. Seeing not the haggard, blotchy face that would stare back at me just a few years later, but an "artist."

She was everywhere, that ghost. For the first time in a long time, it was hard to accept what I'd done to her. As much as I enjoyed watching my friends play the other night, as grateful as I felt that these two guys have known me for 25 years and yet still enjoy my company, I felt like I abandoned that girl in the bathroom. She was going to stumble out for another round with her friends and no one was going to be there.

I wonder if I've truly made amends to myself, above and beyond the "living amends" I try to make on a daily basis.

1993. Catbox Cabaret @ The Cantab. "Once Upon A Time In The Decline of the West."

lisamcc at 9:18 a.m.

5 comments so far
Ska "T"
2009-10-12 14:48:25
That girl may not have survived to judge, you know. Living, with all of the crap that goes with it, is lots better.
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Jon Metters
2009-10-12 15:10:45
But you DID get to touch my face, which was as hot and smooth as a honey-baked ham. So it HAD to be worth it.
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Lynette
2009-10-12 16:50:34
I'm not posting the myriad of trite soundbites that came to mind as I read this. In stead, I will just tell you you're beautiful and I admire the hell out of you.
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Jess
2009-10-12 18:59:13
I second Lynette's emotion. When I move, we can hang out and not drink together, heh, since I'm pretty sure my drinkin' days are over, too. We can stare at each other awkwardly and try to think up stuff to say. It'll be awesome, hee hee.
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Lexi
2009-10-28 22:00:06
Stare at each other awkwardly and try to think up stuff to say? Can I get in on that? ;P Lisa, I love this essay ten thousand ways. You're amazing.
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