A Beer For Angelo

Every October, I go to Smitty’s for a beer. Just one. The rest of the year, I’m sober.

I know there are people who would say that that means I’m not really sober, but that’s bullshit. If you can go every day of the year — except one — without drinking, in my book, you’re a teetotaler.

Besides, I don’t drink the beer for myself. It’s for Angelo.

A decade or so ago, Angelo used to hang out with me and Frannie. Frannie was gorgeous, Angelo was hilarious, and I was… there. Honestly, Angelo and I took turns being the third wheel. We were both in love with Frannie.

Angelo’s accident happened one night after the three of us had been out drinking. We were catching the subway when he fell off the platform and, while I was trying to reach out to him, the train came.

After that, things were never the same between me and Frannie. She said she didn’t really see what happened, but she’d seen enough to know it was my fault. I told her that was ridiculous.

“He was my closest male friend. Why would I want him dead?” She looked at me like it was the stupidest thing anyone had ever said and walked away.

Not long after, I got sober. The way I figured it, if Angelo hadn’t been boozed up, he might not have fallen. If I hadn’t, I might have been able to grab him.

About a year later, Frannie announced that she was moving back to Minneapolis. I asked if we could have a final dinner together. She considered it for a long moment, but eventually agreed.

That evening, over filet and Arnie Palmers, she got very serious and said, “I want to ask you a favor.”

”Anything,” I answered.

“Every October, on the anniversary of Angelo’s… death, I want you to drink a beer in his honor.”

“Frannie, you know I can’t. I’m sober.”

“Just one. You can drink one beer without being a drunk, can’t you? For Angelo? You said he was your best friend when the… accident… happened.”

I promised her I would. What else could I do?

“Keep in touch,” I told her, as we parted company.

“Goodbye,” she replied.

That first October after my vow, I went to Smitty’s and ordered a good German lager. Raising the stein to the air, I thought to myself, “Here’s to you, Angelo.”

The initial drink was like that feeling you get when you take a sip of ice water after you’ve been out in the heat for hours. When it was gone sooner than I’d expected, I thought, “What kind of chintzy bastard only has one beer to toast his departed friend?” I ordered another.

Every year, I get closer to having just that one beer, on just that one day. Jobs come and go, relationships turn to shit, but I always keep my promise. I do it for Frannie, though we never talk, anymore. And for Angelo.