Uneasy

The apples were bubbling up with little pops of steam lifting the speckled crust. My shoulders rose along with the corners of my mouth as if the rising vapors of the warm pastry had complete control of my happiness. This is the one, I thought. It’s a winner.

I got a late start rolling out the dough and peeling the apples. I had eight days to go to make adjustments to my recipe. This could not be rushed. Carolyn was on her way over to sample my likely contest entry -- a bonus for her first social call in the city for her Midwestern sojourn.

I warned Carolyn when she got there that the pie wasn’t ready.

“Oh that’s OK. I just wanted to see you anyway,” she sweetly soothed.

Carolyn was as lean and lithe as she was when I left her in the Mojave desert eight years earlier. Her hair was still parted precisely down the middle and slicked straight on either side yielding to curls at the ends, only instead of cropped short like a boy’s the way it used to be, her locks cascaded down her shoulders with curious corkscrews that looked damp. Her boyfriend was a cornfed Midwesterner that had probably been accused of falling off a turnip truck more than once. He was a delight.

“It smells amazing in here!” she effused. “What is this for?”

“It’s just a pie contest,” I explained. “They do it at a park in Bucktown every fall and I wanted to try my hand at it.”

“Oooooh. That’s so fun!” She was always overly enthusiastic about… everything.

I offered to take them around the corner for a beer while the pie’s innocence evaporated, leaving behind a seasoned pastry. The couple ordered fancy beers and I ordered a hard cider — a weakness of mine. It was syrupy-sweet but refreshing like lemonade only wicked strong.

I took a pull of pure effervescence and let the veil of stability lower.

Carefully illustrating what I might be up against, Carolyn took me through the process of a short sale. She had just buttoned up the last bits of turning over her Las Vegas townhouse to the bank as I was considering the fate of my condo, post-mortgage crisis. It was the boring yet scary side of adulthood. What happened to catching up on marriage and babies?

She stopped paying her mortgage just after the market tanked.

“It was the best thing I’ve ever done,” she said. “It just didn’t make sense to keep throwing money into a pit.”

“Have you had any trouble with your credit yet?” I asked.

“Sort of,” she said. “The broker in Seattle did a background check and at first they gave it to me, but then told me I couldn’t have it because of the house. Eventually, it worked out.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “Everything I read tells me that I’m stupid for continuing to pay.”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to stop paying either, but I feel so much better now,” she exhaled with relief.

The funny thing about alcohol is that it always made things seem more interesting than they actually were. It made mortgages more colorful and it amplified the slightest irritation and turned it into torment.

Without pausing to read my audience, I launched into the drama cooking between me and a friend Carolyn would likely never meet.

“Lucy and I haven’t been getting along,” I revealed, leaning deeply across the table like I was telling a fascinating tale of triumph.

“She takes it so personally when I don’t want to hang out. She sent me a nasty text just before you guys got here.”

Ever the accommodating listener, Carolyn offered her objective opinion.

“All relationships have an expiration date,” Carolyn declared. “Maybe it’s time to cut ties.”

“Perhaps,” I said before clumsily notifying my guests that we didn’t have time for pie if we wanted to get to the entertainment of the evening.

With time slipping away, we slid into a cab that swept us up to Logan Square for chuckles and beer. A comedian friend was celebrating his latest achievement: a comedy special recorded for posterity.

The doorman gave me a knowing nod and waved me in but stopped Carolyn and her boyfriend to check their IDs. We carved our way through the menacing crowd and I wedged my way up to the bar to waved at Cole.

“Whiskey soda with a splash of ginger?” the bar owner wanted to confirm.

“Yes!” I smiled, delighted that he always remembered my drink. “And two PBRs, please!”

Snaking our way to the back, I was dizzied by all the people I hadn’t seen in months. Three sheets to the wind, I slinked past comedians and barflies, slurring hello and neglecting to introduce them to Carolyn. When I got closer to the stage, I spotted Lena who had eclipsed Lucy from my sight. I garbled a hello to Lena and, propelled by hostility, turned back to go to the bar. Lena followed, but I lost Carolyn.

When I pulled out my money to order a drink, Lena asked, “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” I said, swaying. “I’m fine.”

I wasn’t. When she turned around, I walked out the door and got in a cab. An Irish exit. Or was it a French exit? Whatever it was called, I didn’t even bother to find Carolyn to tell her I had to leave.

When I got home, I got a text from Lucy. It was another nasty message so I responded with something even nastier before plunging into bed.

Eight hours under the covers only smoothed some of my rough edges. Crumpled under the weight of humiliation, I did a mental review of the previous night’s events. I winced at the digital brutality I inflicted upon Lucy. I didn’t know exactly what I wrote, but I knew I couldn’t take it back. I quickly sent an apology but didn’t expect it to be accepted. I felt empty but relieved.

Carolyn called when she got up to pack and leave town.

“Sorry I disappeared,” I said. “I really shouldn’t drink at all. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea.”

“I hope you had fun! I felt bad leaving you there without saying goodbye, but I figured you’d be OK.”

“Ugh,” I said. “I was a total asshole to my friend I told you about that I was fighting with. I mean BIG ASSHOLE.”

“You can apologize, can’t you?” she suggested.

“I did. But I have a feeling the damage is...irreparable.”

“Then give it some time,” she soothed. “But Josh and I had fun. We were just disappointed we didn’t get to try any of your apple pie.”

“Awww. Well, it was good to see you and thanks for the info on the house. I’ll probably just find a second job and if that doesn’t work out, I’ll go back to my old job.”

“Let me know if I can provide any additional advice!” she said, with peculiarly formal force.

I did a slow scan of the wreckage left behind in my apartment. My swollen gaze stopped on the pie. Looking sad and abandoned, I packed it into a box to take to Stacy’s.

I pedaled the pie up to Humboldt Park to hand-deliver it to the family. The bike ride was rough on the pie. I didn’t expect it to survive the injustices of my hangover, but the cutouts I tried didn’t work anyway, so it didn’t really matter that it was kind of cracked and smooshed.

When I arrived, the older of her two boys was watching TV. The three-year-old wasn’t interested in TV, his obsession had him attached to his mother’s ankles, begging for ice.

“Hi!!!!!” greeted Stacy, chomping expectantly on her gum. “How are you?”

Stacy was the object of envy for anyone over the age of 35. At 42 she had the youthfulness of a 25-year-old. Not a single wrinkle tarnished her face and her hair had yet to be disrupted by strands of gray. Her demeanor was equally soothing and ebullient.

I walked in and followed Stacy to the kitchen where her husband, Mike, was cooking fish for dinner.

“Ugh,” I said cryptically. “I’m OK.”

“Uh oh..” she said. “What happened? Rough night?”

“God, yes. I guess. I really shouldn’t drink at all anymore,” I said, slowly exposing my shame.

“Oh?” she asked.

“Oh god,” I said, feeling the pang of my nasty text coming back. “I was such an asshole to Lucy.”

“What’d you do?" She asked in a disciplinary tone.

I hung my head and made an exaggerated whimper. “I sent a mean text.”

Mike continued to cook and listen to us but didn’t offer anything to the conversation.

“What’d you say?” she asked.

“I’m not sure exactly, but I’m pretty sure our friendship is over,” I said.

“That can’t be true,” Stacy offered.

“And there’s no excuse for my bad decision to drink.”

“If you really think it’s a problem, I’d be more than willing to take you to a meeting,” she said, easing my anxiety. Stacy was in a twelve step program but never judged me or any of our friends for drinking in excess.

“I don’t know,” I said, brushing off the suggestion. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

She didn't push. I collected my pie box and left them to eat their dinner.

“Tell me how the pie is. Oh.. and you should come to the pie contest next Sunday,” I said. “It’s huge. Lots of kid stuff to do. It’ll be family fun with a lot of pie.”

I said goodbye to Mike, Stacy, and the boys, hopped on my bike and headed home.

When I looked at my phone as I dismounted my bike, there was a text from Mike.

“The pie is delicious. There’s a unique flavor in there. Cardamom?”

“It’s Malort. And any other criticisms are appreciated. Apple size? Texture? Thanks for testing!”

“The apples are excellent. Texture of the crust is great too. Just had a second piece...Crust could use a touch more salt.”

“Thanks, buddy. And tell your wife thanks for listening to me.

Seriously, come out for the contest on Sunday. It’s a nice mini-festival. Very fall :) “