LORD DIONYSUS AND THE TECHNICOLOR DREAMCOAT

(Original Image of The Jammy Zins by Amanda Sverlow)

Ronnie was a good guy. We used to run together as drinking buddies from our mid-twenties to our mid-thirties. Eventually, he traded the bottle for the smoke which irritated me at first, but I learned over time and through many conversations with Mandi to appreciate his transformation. It was my own immaturity exposing itself back then. I couldn't accept the fact that people changed no matter how rigorously you held on to who they were. And so, whenever we had the rare opportunity to see Ronnie and Red, his fiancé, we’d laugh and talk and sip slowly at beers while bringing up events of the past when it seemed all of us had been different people with far different priorities.

One particularly hot day in spring, Ronnie swung by to talk. I had taken the day off work, and so the two of us met at the street in front of my apartment building and walked to the only bar I knew was open despite the pandemic: The Back Door Lounge. Local regulations did not permit indoor seating, so we sat at one of the two makeshift tables set up by the door in the alleyway. I ordered a rum and coke and a glass of water, and he ordered a beer.

“Listen,” he said, “I want you to officiate our wedding. I figured it’d be appropriate seeing as how I officiated yours.”

Reflexively I said, “Yeah, sure. It’d be an honor.” Then I dove into my drink and goddamn if they didn’t pour it strong enough to churn my insides at the first sip. I avoided wine because of the heat – wine tended to lay on you like a thick blanket whenever physical activity, like walking, became a factor – but I quickly regretted my decision.

“So, you’ll have to get ordained.” he continued. “I don’t give a damn what it’s for, only that it’s legal.”

After another sip of the rum and a swift, acidic twist of the stomach, I said, “Yeah. Okay. I was thinking about something with wine, like Lord Dionysus. I could grow my hair out, my beard too, and wear this garish technicolor dreamcoat and drink from twin ruby-lined chalices crafted from the finest silver.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m being serious.”

“And then, at the reception, I could shed my robe, adorn a crown of thorns, and prance naked ‘round the punch bowl, all the while chanting the Beatles B-side hits.”

He smirked then downed his beer.

“That, my friend, I’d actually like to see.”

For the next round, I ordered wine, but they were out of the red, so I went with the house Chardonnay. I felt embarrassed, delicate bringing it out and setting it on the table between us. But then Ronnie asked for a sip, and I felt alright again.

“Hell, let me buy you your own glass.” I told him.

“No, I’d better not. I have to leave soon. Red’s been texting me, asking when I’ll be home.”

“But we just got here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How long do you have then?”

“Maybe fifteen.”

“Shit. You guys have something special planned or what?”

“Nah, just the wedding… now give me a damn sip, would ya?!”