Page 78 of Sharkbait
He shuts the music off completely, slowly exits the car and sits down beside me. He looks at me like I’m from another planet.
“You don’t like The Beatles?”he asks in disbelief.
“Not particularly.”
“John, Paul, George, and Ringo.”
“I’m familiar with the band, James. And yeah, no. Don’t like ’em. Not my jam.”
“How can The Beatles not be your jam!?” His voice ratchets up like he’s swallowed helium. “Everyone likes The Beatles!”
“Clearly, everyone does not. Are you okay? Your voice is getting really high.”
“Saying you don’t like The Beatles is like saying, ‘You know what? I don’t really care for oxygen.’”
“Alright, you’re being dramatic.”
“No, I’m not! You can’t even really categorize their music as music. It just… is. The Beatles didn’t write songs. They wrote hymns on how to create a life well lived!”
I snort. “Yeah, that ‘Octopus’s Garden’ anthem is chock-full of life lessons. ‘Yellow Submarine’ is also pretty inspiring. And‘I am the Walrus’! Wow. ‘Goo goo g’joob,’ am I right? Have you ever gotten such solid life advice before?”
“Rrrrrr,” he growls. “You have a point. And don’t think I missed the fact that you’re only referencing ocean-inspired songs. But ‘Live and Let Die,’ ‘Let it Be,’ ‘All You Need is Love?’
I shrug.
“Come on, woman! Those are epic, soul-stirring anthems, all telling us to chill the hell out, breathe, and go on the ride of life!”
“You are nerding out so hard right now.”
“You bet I am!For The Beatles? I’ll nerd out until the end of time.”
“I just think if you’re going to praise the ‘soul-stirring anthems,’ then you also have to acknowledge that just as many songs were total—possibly drug-infused—nonsense.”
He mimes stabbing a knife into his heart before settling back on the bench.
“Man.” He blows out a breath and stares at the river. “I’m not sure we can still be friends after this revelation.”
“Is that what we are?” I ask softly. “Friends?”
“Well, wewere!”
We laugh.
“But I suppose it’s an even trade. I tell you I’m an alcoholic, you tell me you’re anti-Beatles. Somehow, together, we’ll get through this.”
He puts his arm around me.
I sink into him. Like we’ve done this a million times.
He makes it feel so easy.
“Wait a second.” I lift my head off his shoulder. “You’re an alcoholic who runs a bar?”
He nods.
“Should I be using that word? Alcoholic? It feels kind of mean.”
He shrugs. “I usually say I’m ‘sober’ or ‘in recovery,’ but ‘alcoholic’ works too. One of the first things we say at meetings is ‘Hi, my name is James and I’m an alcoholic.’ I’m totally fine with that word.”
