DIRTY SHIRLEY

 DIRTY SHIRLEY

She asked what I wanted to drink but I didn’t know—what the hell did I know? I had never been out before. I had spent all my weekend nights in until then. It was a silly question to ask me—what I’d like to drink.  I bet I made my eyes real big like I do; Mother does that too, because she disappeared for a moment and when she came back she thrust a cup of cherry red liquid into my hand. I didn’t even know how to hold it, where to hold it, how far out to hold it, what is the proper height to hold a drink while out in society?

Know that these days; I’m drunk whenever I toss the straw out on the floor. Such a silly contraption and sillier are the rumors that it gets one drunker. They’ve started giving us these paper ones that melt to help the universe. I like to put my mouth up against the rim and drink straight from the glass, large gulps that will stain a blouse, and then I chew the ice for fun. The first cup always tastes like cherry candy with a horrible bitter disinfectant aftertaste at the end of each swallow that starts to become less noticeable with every gulp, bringing warmth up to the ears and then one is overcome with fits of giddiness. I bet I stuck out my tongue in disgust; I still do in the hopes of someone watching my little show. It is an acquired taste, darling, and now bottoms up.

The proper way to drink a Dirty Shirley is to let the cherries soak, let them bathe in the red liquid and then eat them last. It gets you drunker. When the bartender asks sprite or ginger ale, always choose sprite and don’t be shy to ask for more cherries if they try to cheat you. Some of them try to trick you by lifting up three but somehow only one ends up in the glass. Watch them, especially the busty blondes if you happen to find yourself at a sport bar. Ginger ale never tastes right with the grenadine and you should get smart with them if they even suggest it—sadly there are bars out here with bartenders that don’t even know the recipe, they’re only familiar with how to crack open a beer.

Yes, I believe that they should be banned from ever walking into a bar ever again, not to mention behind the counter—you, my dear, are no mixologist and you shouldn’t been allowed to call yourself one until you learn the basics, which include a dirty Shirley, three cherries, please, doll face. I am a little forgetful sometimes too and end up eating the cherries first. What can I say; I need a nosh while I drink.

I’m not sure how many of these I’ve had in my career. I threw one across the room once. A blush grows on my cheek when I think about it. It was a traumatic night for me. The beginning of my rise to moderate fame, I was making a buzz, a small splash at the studio, I could’ve been a star dammit if I didn’t have to come home to Mother. I was on the cusp of my metamorphosis. Before I was an actor, I had loved a young man. I had met him one night at the disco and I came to love him with the innocence of a boy. He had put an end to our brief affair after I became hysterical, I will tell you why later. Nevertheless, he would still let me follow him and corner him and take my kisses on the way home from the disco. I would wait for him behind some tree in the dark and out I would pounce and begrudgingly he’d let me walk him home and we would kiss. He stopped coming out for a while, he was travelling, I went insane with grief but then the studio picked me up and I got busy getting high and I forgot all about it. Anyways, he showed up the night of the tossed dirty Shirley along with some friends of mine that couldn’t understand me anymore and weren’t making the smallest effort to be sympathetic, therefore were now against me, these are worst kind of foes because they know what you know and that it always too much.

Well, they all showed up that night. It was a monthly dance night that travelled through venues around the city. The young man had been on the committee for a season, so naturally he would show up which is why I went. Very clingy I was, on the way to the disco I had consumed some of those brown liquor nips with the red caps, two of them. Long story short, I ended up pulling at my hair and was gathered up a few inches off of the floor into the arms of a dear tall black friend of mine who restrained me lovingly yet with such a sobering tight grip in his big arms until I got a hold of myself. Perhaps his cologne acted like some type of smelling salt. Thank goodness there were no cameras. I’m not sure what came over me but I couldn’t help being ignored by all parties present, so I took two sips from a freshly made dirty Shirley and threw it and it landed bull’s-eye in the middle of their semi-circle like a ball of fire that turned to ashes once it hit the carpet. No one knew who it was meant for. I’m not sure who I was aiming at either.