Friends Bond Over Beer (an Excerpt from 'Reunion: Coda')

Cover art design: Juan Carlos Hernandez

 In this excerpt, Jim Garraty (our narrator/protagonist) is lying on his bed, listening to the original Broadway cast recording of West Side Story and trying to keep it together after an emotionally trying day that included his high school graduation ceremony. It's 8:00 PM on Friday, June 17, 1983, and Jim has just decided to not replay the cassette of music from the classic 1957 reimagining of Romeo and Juliet, choosing instead to be alone with his thoughts. 

The final strains of "Finale" seemed to linger, stretching out to touch the edges of eternity before they dissolved into the quiet of my shadowed room. The tape in the GE 3-5104 cassette player, a Christmas gift from Mom, hissed its postlude, then snapped off with a decisive "Click!" that punctuated the silence.

I toyed with the idea of replaying the tape—Marty's graduation gift to me, a treasure trove of melodies and memories. I'd managed to keep my composure through Bernstein and Sondheim's "Ballet," where "Somewhere" first weaves its magic. Could I brave it again without unraveling?

"I wanted to give you something to remind you of our time together... um... in Mrs. Quincy's class. And our song is in it," Marty had said, her voice now a ghostly echo in my mind. A fresh stab of regret pierced me, sharp and frigid, and I knew—I just couldn't face it again.

Before the weight of the silence could fully settle, a knock at the door broke my contemplation. My mother's voice, warm and familiar, filtered through the wood. "Jim, honey, Mark's here. Can he come in?" Her words, simple and mundane, were a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present, to the reality waiting beyond the door.

“Sure, Mom. Send him in,” I replied, trying to sound as if nothing was wrong.

The door creaked open, and there stood Mark, his attire a casual blend of Wranglers and a Return of the Jedi tee, holding a Publix bag as if it were something precious. The soft clinking of glass hinted at its contents. "Hey, buddy. How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine, I guess," I answered, my voice flat, eyes darting to the bag. "What's that? I hope that's not another graduation present."

He set the bag down with a clatter that seemed too loud for the quiet room. With a quick glance at the door, he shut it firmly. "It is a present," he admitted, "but not the kind our moms would be thrilled about."

I raised an eyebrow, a half-smile playing on my lips. "Well, it's definitely not the July issue of Playboy, that's for sure." The lightness in my tone didn't quite reach my eyes. 

Mark's grin was a prelude to mischief. "Man, gift a buddy—no, a best buddy—a Playboy for his 18th, and it's like you've signed a pact for eternal ribbing," he said, his eyebrow doing a comical dance that pulled a genuine chuckle out of me. "Zip it, and check these out..."

He delved into the Publix bag, the drama in his movement worthy of a stage, and emerged victorious with two Heineken bottles held high.

My surprise must've been clear as day. "Where on earth did you snag those?"

Mark, ever the secret agent, gave a quick, paranoid sweep of the room before leaning in, his voice a low whisper. "You recall that last visit to my dad's? The monthly post-divorce ritual?"

I nodded, intrigued.

"I swiped these bad boys for an occasion just like this. Dad's got a whole stash of Heinekens in his 'special fridge.' He won't notice a couple missing," he declared with a grin that spelled trouble and camaraderie all at once.

The chill from the Heineken bottle seeped into my fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. I raised an eyebrow at Mark, silently questioning.

He caught my look and chuckled. "I stashed them in the freezer the moment we got back," he said with a conspiratorial grin. "Mom and Leslie were none the wiser." He plunked his bottle down on my desk, the sound was a solid promise of the night to come. Fishing out a bottle opener from his pocket, he popped the caps with practiced ease, the metallic ping of the caps hitting the floor a testament to our quiet rebellion.

I took a swig from my bottle. It tasted of a curious blend of bitter and sweet, with a malty backbone complemented by subtle notes of biscuit and a whisper of green apple and sweet corn. The beer was as cold as the water from a mountain stream in late fall, sending a shiver down my spine. I wasn't sure if I liked the taste—there was a complexity there that I couldn't quite place, perhaps a hint of something almost skunky in its boldness. But as the lager settled in my stomach, I couldn't deny the comforting surge of warmth that followed.

"Whoa," I managed, the word hanging in the air between us.

Mark's smile was all mischief and shared secrets. "You've officially lost your beer virginity, Jimmy boy," he teased, his blue-gray eyes twinkling with the kind of camaraderie that comes from years of friendship. "Maybe next year, you'll be sharing a beer with a girl and..." His voice dropped off, and he took a hearty swig from his bottle, leaving the sentence to hang as he did.

A flush of warmth spread up my neck, coloring my cheeks, whether from the beer or Mark's insinuations about girls and what comes with them, I couldn't tell. "Hey..."

"Cheers," he interrupted with a laugh that was both knowing and forgiving.

"Cheers," I echoed, and this time, the smile that spread across my face felt real, unforced.

We finished our beers in contemplative silence, each lost in our own maze of thoughts. When the last drops were gone, Mark gathered the empty bottles and tucked them back into the Publix bag. "I'll ditch these in Mrs. Finklestein's trash on my way out," he declared.

I raised an eyebrow. "Just make sure she's not out there playing cat wrangler on her porch."

"Nah, she does her feline roundup at 7 sharp every evening," he replied with a certainty that came from years of neighborhood observation. "We're in the clear."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You've got her routine down to a science, huh?"

He shrugged, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You pick up on things after a while, like the eccentricities of cat ladies—or," he paused, a serious note creeping into his voice, "...the signs of a best friend with something on his mind."