When the Lights Go Out
A short story
As is the case so often in my life, I should have known it was a bad idea from the start. In my defense, there was a lot of foolish optimism running around as we neared the end of 1983, especially after Reagan invaded Granada in October and smoked all those Cubans; he was so much tougher than Carter had been. I was newly and happily discharged from the Army, in the longest-lasting relationship of my life (six months and counting), and eager to experience all Savannah had to offer. As the Hostess City of the South, she owed me no less.
This ill-advised optimism is the only reason I had agreed to the idea of sharing a house with my girlfriend’s best friend’s boyfriend (try saying that three times fast). It was not ill-advised because I didn’t like Joey; on the contrary, he was great. He had a job, hated country music, and drank the same bourbon as me, which is about all you can ask for in a roommate. The problem was that as soon as Becky suggested it to me one night, I knew it was doomed even as I said yes.
Shannon had already talked to Joey, and I’m sure he thought the same thing I did. We clearly couldn’t say no since we were already spending all our time together, as happens with guys who date best friends. The thing you can never bring up is that if one of the couples split up in such an arrangement, the guys never get to remain…
