I learned lessons about divorce at a young age; well let’s say I learned divorce was serious business early on, most lessons seem to be a bit over my head.
Everyone has that one uncle who teaches you things - not through the passing of wisdom, tribal campfire allegories, or the use of science – but through either sheer terror or inappropriate craziness. My role model in this regard is Kent and at an early age he was already showing me the ropes and teaching me life lessons.
At 16, Kent and I agreed that it was time for me to take advantage of my fake ID (a story in its own right) and accompany him to one of his favorite watering holes. The bar, known for its cougars and younger woman of questionable moral and emotional standing would be a perfect place for me to get my bar scene feet wet. We agreed that some of the normal tricks I used to look older when purchasing beer at local drive through liquor stores may not work in the see and be seen bar environment. Such tricks of the trade included sitting on phone books and taking eye-liner to my pre-shaven upper lip peach fuzz – for a more robust Zoro look. We chose instead a more professional look and nothing said professional like a blue blazer. The blazer, a size 44, did much to overshadow my frame which was really made for Garanimals and Toughskins. That said, I found strange confidence in being a dead ringer for David Byrne in his best Talking Heads video.
With my new dapper look we headed to the promise land. I had no trouble getting in with my fake Indiana drivers license. This was a bar in South Dakota, it was 1989, and I might as well have been giving the bouncer a Ukrainian passport. It was eerie entering the bar, maybe it was because my shoulder pads scraped along the door frame on the way in but, no, it really was strange. It was dark. It smelled funny. Women with large breasts looked over at me. Men with large breasts also looked over at me. Weird. I felt like a wild dingo dog making his way to a new watering hole - keen to the unfamiliar smells and potential dangers.
I shook off my uneasiness when Kent tapped my shoulder and motioned me to the bar. Upon bellying up, I felt the need to assert myself…
Me: “Hey Mac, could we get two beers over here?!”
Bartender: “Mac?”
It turns out bartenders do not universally respond cordially to being called Mac. Who knew? Good old uncle Kent quickly repaired the situation and soon I was quietly sipping my Bud Light bottle – on top of the world. It wasn’t long before Kent determined it was time to troll around the place while I manned our beachhead at the bar.
Soon after being left to fend for myself at the watering hole, I noticed a girl, I mean lady or woman or maybe dame? Well, there was a lady sitting next to me and we made eye contact. The conversation was a bit disjointed at first with me commenting on how impressed I was they kept all that alcohol behind the bar. Soon though, we had a nice rhythm going and the faintest hint existed that maybe, just maybe I was making progress. I was starting to feel like I was really filling out my blazer when she dropped the serious bomb on me:
Woman: <sigh> “Divorce Sucks.”
I pause here, searching for my best empathetic comment – this is my big chance to exude manly sophistication and I know the topic well.
Me: <slow exhale> “Yeah, divorce does suck – are your parents divorced too?”
Woman: <confused silence followed by agitation> “No… you idiot, ‘I’ am divorced.”
Needless to say the conversation went south and I soon was left by myself admiring the massive amount of alcohol behind the bar – my shoulder pads in my blazer feeling loose once again. A missed opportunity indeed but a lesson learned - Divorce does suck.