habby p-day

Killing time in Chicago before catching my MegaBus wasn't as hard as I thought. I spent a few hours at Stella's cafe and ordered my own pot of tea; if I let the tea steep for the right amount of time, then it achieves a bourbon hue (I foresee many cafes in my future). The cook at CJ's grill in my old neighborhood recognized me and remembered that I liked the chicken philly sandwich. These were my checkpoints as I made my way downtown to Millennium Park's lawn crowded with lovers, friends, and families for a free symphony performance, where my duffle bag and all-purpose towel turned into the world's most comfortable recliner.

There were beginnings of beauty returning as I stared at the skyline while the clouds formed a shape that briefly watched over us mortals scattered on the lawn. This beauty has come in fits and starts on my earlier travels, so powerful yet so easily drowned or washed away.

I asked three people for directions to Union Station. I wasn't that lost, but asking for directions has become one of my favorite interactions. I have a convenient request, the person can give me a simple answer, and we move along without a second thought. I wish that it could be like this with alcohol.

My throat is dry, so I go to the Union Station food court, but all the restaurants are closed, encased in steel grids. I see that there's a bar open, one of those nice, half-crescent, dark wood set-ups. I could sit there and order a rum and coke and tell the bartender to hold the rum - and if the bartender didn't hear that last part of my order, then it plainly wouldn't be my fault... there is also a convenience shop about to close. I walk in and buy a blue Powerade, which I've found to be immensely refreshing ever since that small-town sheriff bought me one on my sixteenth birthday. The bottle is halfway finished by the time I pay for it - gulp gulp gulp.

I make it to Memphis, and my Mom picks me up. My little brother is resting at home, so we talk about every little detail of the accident. We both wear sunglasses and pause periodically. When she asks me what kind of cake I'd like for my birthday, I hit one of those throat-catching pauses and pretend that I'm considering my options intensely.

I don't want today to be my birthday. Whenever I wish someone a happy birthday on facebook, I say habby p-day. I think this started because I was drunk and thought it was funny that the b's and p's were upside down. When people asked me what the p stood for, I said it could stand for whatever they wanted, since it was their day.

Well, if I'm to stay true to my word, then I want my p-day to stand for promise.

I promise that I won't cry in front of my little brother.

I promise that I'll say thanks whenever someone says haaaaapy birthday.

I promise that I won't waste any wishes until I figure out what I need.

I promise that a birthday shot is out of the question on p-day.

And I promise that there's no place that I'd rather be today than here with my family.