enjoy your shit.

Living with divorce...

“Your ex-husband is here. It's not any of my business; just thought you'd like to know.”

I couldn't have imagined a worse text to read on my way to the show at the Argus. I had been looking forward to this show for two months-- since I had introduced the band to Greg to set it up. Now I was on my way there, ready to enjoy the show after a day of work, only to find out that the door guy just checked the I.D. of my ex-husband.

We hadn't spoken since the Talk six months before, which ended in our decision to divorce. Well, he would argue that it ended with my decision to divorce, and I would argue that it ended with his shouting “Have a nice life” and walking out of my room; but I suppose that's all just part of the game.

“He's really drunk; you probably shouldn't try to talk to him,” two bartenders informed me before I made it across the barroom to the door of the Underground.

“Great,” I replied dryly. “Let's get weird, then.”

I greeted James at the door. “Thanks for the heads up. I guess it's that kind of night.”

“And how.” He nodded and shrugged.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I spotted him immediately at the bar across the tiny room, and I paused. The bartender was handing him his tab.

“How have you been, man?” Lew greeted him.

The bartender looked at him confused. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“Lew... We used to come down here every week.”

The bartender shook his head, and suddenly caught my eye across the room. He glanced back at Lew, then to me.

“Ah!” he forced an awkward smile and shook his finger at Lew. 'Yes, now I remember you. Good.” He slid the tab across the bar and turned to the next customer.

Lew signed his tab, grabbed his drinks, and turned toward the stairs. He caught my eye, but turned to the next room and walked past me without a greeting. I sighed and walked up to the bar.

Steve reached across the bar and kissed my hand. “Your ex is here, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He refilled my glass.

I had prepared myself to boldly walk onto the dance floor, to enjoy the band that I had brought into this bar. This was my bar. If my ex was going to show up unannounced from out of town, he was going to have to understand that he was crossing into my territory and contending with my friends.

“He's really drunk tonight,” Steve said.

“I know.” I turned to glance into the next room, where the band was playing. “How's the show going?”

Steve shrugged. “The crowd is in and out. But the band is really good. That singer is incredible, some of the notes he can hit... And the drummer! Holy shit, he's amazing.”

I nodded absentmindedly and smiled. He was right. But, of course, I already knew these things, right? I listened to Charlie sing these lyrics over and over in a studio in Appleton, Wisconsin, recording an album a year ago, right? I got high with the band in the Northern Wisconsin cabin of that drummer's family last Spring, and I saw his baby and his wife and his uncle, and I saw him play in a loft in the woods until he seemed to melt into the drumset; yeah, I knew he was good.

I had drank Bloody Marys on Charlie's balcony and listened while he played this song in its infancy on his acoustic guitar in his bedroom. Right?

I took three steps, and I was in the doorway. I was looking at the backs of all of the people I used to know. I was looking at Lew's drunken arms dancing to the music. My resolve was gone. I could not be bold. Not after just two drinks.

The band was playing a cover of Butch Walker's Don't You Think Someone Should Take You Home. My heart jumped in my throat when I heard it, flooded with the sound of Frenchie's violin playing this song last Spring.

I hadn't heard Lew's voice since that last day. We were barely in touch online, sorting out credit card debt. We hadn't even filed for divorce officially yet. He had had the papers for months; I was still waiting for him to sign and return them to me.

Would he really not talk to me all night? What was he doing in my bar?

Charlie looked across the crowd and caught my eye over Lew's shoulder. I smiled. He turned away and continued to play.

“Hey!” a voice came from behind me. Cory was walking my way from the bar. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, I've been doing well. How are you? It's good to see you!”

“Doing good. The show's been pretty fun.”

“Oh yeah? Lots of people here?”

“In and out.”

“Yeah, that's what the bartender said...”

We never had had a lot to talk about.

I rattled the ice in my empty glass. “I better go get another. It was good seeing you.”

“You too! I'll see you around.”

I ordered another drink, then returned to my post in the doorway to watch the last song. Charlie's girlfriend was standing with a friend just a few feet away, so I stepped up to them and tapped her shoulder .

She turned and saw me. She didn't say anything.

I smiled. “Hi, Erin! How have you been?”

She didn't smile back. “Hey.” She turned back to her roommate and started a conversation.

I blinked, surprised, then stepped back to the doorway without a word. I took one more sip of my drink and gave up on the show. Who were these people, and why were they in my bar? I went back upstairs.

James had left for the night, and the bar was nearly empty now. I sat at a stool and ordered two shots from Greg.

He raised his eyebrows at me. “How did it go down there?”

“He didn't even talk to me. None of them talked to me. They're under his god damn spell, as always. I don't know how he does that.”

Greg raised his shot glass, so I lifted mine to meet it, and we drank the whiskey.

I slammed the glass to the bar, froze in that position, looked at Greg for a moment.

“They are just looking at me like I don't belong here. Like I am the one who's out of place!
What is going on here?”

The band was packing up and beginning to haul equipment upstairs. Lew followed the group into the back hallway. Then I heard Steve's voice from behind him.

“Hey, man! Wait!” he came up the stairs and tapped Lew's shoulder.

Lew stopped and turned around.

“What the hell is this?” Steve waved a receipt in front of him. “Three dollars? On a sixty-dollar tab; are you fucking kidding?”

Lew shrugged, without a word.

Steve shoved the receipt at Lew and handed him a pen. “That's like five percent, dude. That's shitty. Cross that out and make it a bigger tip.”

Lew scribbled on the receipt and handed it back.

“Six dollars,” Steve said, looking Lew in the eye. “That's still shitty, but better.” He turned and walked back down the stairs.

Lew followed the band into the back alley.

Greg gestured their way and said to me, “Steve doesn't ever call people out like that.”

I finished my drink, ordered another.

As Greg placed the drink in front of me, Lew walked into the bar through the front door. I picked up the drink, prepared to ignore being ignored, but he walked toward me. I opened my mouth to utter a greeting, but before I could say anything, he reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. He raised it into the air and smacked it onto the bar in front of me.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Divorce papers,” he replied. He looked drunkenly into my eyes and waved a hand at the bar around us, at Greg. “Enjoy your shit, darlin'.”

I glanced to the envelope, then back at him, and nodded without a word. He walked away. He left with the band through the back alley. No one said good bye.

“I'm ready to put this behind me,” I said to Greg as we approached the door of the Compound at the end of the night. I shook my head. “I'm ready to leave this town behind me.”