Take Five
By George Rose
August 11, 2009
I broke the cardinal rule last night. I drunk dialed my ex. The only feeling worse than the hangover that comes with an open bar is discovering the day after that there is a 10-minute conversation between you and the person that cheated on you – the only person you ever loved – that you can't remember even a minute of. Unless you recorded that conversation on a voice recorder.
Usually this intro is reserved for commentary on the week's latest releases and is then followed by five recommendations. While I'm in Greece, the formula is for me to "take five" minutes to reflect on my trip and then watch five new films that I have never seen and review them. Lucky you - you're privy to my mess of a life without having to suffer the consequences.
Here is the scene. I am in Greece, having been here for one month with another on the horizon. My family has been here with me for a week. I was alone for the three weeks prior, pretending to date a girl. I am not attracted to women but have been dating this girl because she has awesome friends and a car, a car that has taken me to many of the exciting villages on the island of Chios. Chios is a third world island with old school ideals. Gayness is not tolerated, so I lie about who I am for the sake of a constant party. I am a bad person who deserved to be punished. Karma has caught up with me.
My family saved me from the fate of having to lead this girl on any longer. They have been here for a week and it has been amazing. Last night (July 29, 2009) was the biggest night of them all because my Uncle Max, who owns the most popular bar on the Komi beach strip, called Kohili Bar, was having an open bar night to honor his daughter's birthday. I was aware of this fact and decided not to drink the night before to give my liver the break it would need to fully take advantage of a night full of free booze. Top shelf liquor was included.
Since I was resting up the day before, I had the chance to reread one of my favorite books, Dry by Augusten Burroughs. The memoir is about his struggle with alcoholism and the loss of one of the men he loved, who died from HIV. It is heartbreaking yet hilarious because Burroughs is a wonderfully witty writer. The saddest part about rereading this book is that it reminds me of the time I met him in person during a book signing, back when I was in college in Boston. Beside me at the reading was my ex. After finishing the book I felt compelled to call him.
Burroughs pushed away the man he loved after that man rejected him. Then the man became ill and asked Burroughs to love him again, but he simply couldn't. It was hard enough getting over him the first time and he didn't want to lose him again, a fate that was inevitable as a result of the disease. I wanted to call my ex, a man who once begged me to forgive him and help him through issues of his own, and make sure that he was okay. If my inability to forgive him was in any way responsible for whatever current crisis he might be facing right now, I would be devastated. Yes, gays are dramatic and think like 12-year-old girls when it comes to relationships, but I couldn't help it. Since the phone in our house was occupied each of the two times I tried using it, I took it as a sign from God that I should not call him and I didn't. If I wasn't such a believer in signs I might have been able to prevent a horrific mistake in the future. Or maybe I just shouldn't binge drink the way Americans college students are programmed to.
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