We were the products of generations of abusive upbringings and abusive relationships, of childhood traumas, chemical depressions and chemical dependencies, underfunded school systems, abstinence-only education, a financial collapse, and an economy that no longer produced aught but service. We had outsized ambition and over-acute self-loathing, both of which we kept well-fed with shows, songs, and social media that glorified talent and youth but never mentioned perseverance; still, we had manuscripts, poems, plays, albums, screenplays, blogs, stand-up routines. Or we had a few semesters left that we could take online. Or we were developing apps. Or we had kids. The few of us who lacked some other thing found ways to convince ourselves that the service industry made a difference, that fine dining was a worthwhile thing to participate in, if not with your life, then at least with a significant portion of your waking hours.

            We were black, white, Puerto Rican, Costa Rican, Filipino, Mexican, Guatemalan, French, Indian, Italian, Polish, Burmese, and more. We were gay, straight, trans, and pan-sexual — one of us claimed to sleep only with couples. We had loud sex in thin-walled apartment complexes at odd hours. We woke up mid-day and sought out taco trucks. We showed up buzzed to shifts, pouring vodka into our iced teas to maintain.

            Half our money went to rent, a third to drugs and alcohol, and the rest to student loans or car payments. We didn’t save; if there was any left, we’d take a trip, to Cozumel or Saint Thomas or some other beach. Or the car would break down. Or we’d get sick — we were almost universally uninsured.

            We lived off of leftovers — whatever gratin or puree or poké was left in the pan at the end of the shift, we’d beg it off the line cooks. The female cooks were toughest and most generous. You never asked the head chef for anything.

            We stole avocados from the walk-in, TP from supplies closets; we walked out of the original Whole Foods with Barolos and Super Tuscans tucked into our aprons. Our backpacks stayed stocked with mini-bottles. Cocaine was everywhere, but sometimes we crossed town to get it. The weed came to you.

            We were lean, good-looking, charismatic, and often charming; our looks were how we got the job, our wits were how we kept it (we stayed because we were desperate). We flirted relentlessly — we got numbers, invitations, missed connections, gratuitous tips. We were geniuses of affirmation and pleasantry; we had fresh responses to old clichés; we repeated our lines over and over and over and over, and almost every time they came out sincere.

            After the shift we went to bars in droves, in black slacks and black shoes and undershirts. There was the tequila bar, the absinthe bar, the mustache bar, the hipster-tonk, the underground jazz bar, and Cheer Ups. We went to one place that was hidden behind bookshelves in the basement of an old firehouse. Another was at the center of a parking garage. But mostly we went to Silhouette, this sushi bar near the center of town where they only counted every third drink. That place is gone now.

            We were strategic about South-By; we acted like we’d outgrown ACL. We spent weekdays getting stoned and sunburnt in Barton Creek. We floated down the San Marcos River on mushrooms. We worked weekends, Fourths of July, Thanksgivings, Christmases, New Year’s Eves, Hanukkah, Pride, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Memorial and Labor Day, and our own birthdays. We had breakdowns, relapses, fugues, and the occasional salvo at suicide. We got fired, dumped, written up, beat up, cheated on, and mugged. Our GMs were all cowards and pricks, as well as cautionary tales. The per capita DUI was probably 1.4.

            You wouldn’t have recognized me, Cody.       

            There was a wedding one night, a bunch of guys we both knew in college, a few I was close with once. I wasn’t invited, but I got a text to come to the afterparty, a gathering in the over-lit lobby of some chic new hotel. When I finished my sidework I went to Silhouette, had a beer and two shots, then walked over.

            They’d all grown fat; even the skinny ones had little bellies propping up their ties. And they were lawyers now, and finance bros, and a doctor, but somehow they were still the same spoiled kids we used to be, all dressed up for another date formal — there was a staggering continuity to their lives, their clothes, the ways they interacted with the world.

            We tried to remember some story we might all have in common, then resorted to telling each other where we were living. A few made the obligatory offer for me to come visit, to stay on their couch or in their spare room or wherever. One went on for a while about his sister’s recent battle with leukemia. Then we all smiled into our drinks, feigning comfort and contentment, mercifully allowing the conversation to freeze to death while nearby their dates, girlfriends, fiancés, and new wives—all starving-thin in glittering gowns—hovered in twos and trios, touching each other’s arms, throwing their heads back in exaggerated laughter.

            Eventually I wandered over to the bar, over-tipped the bartender, and he and I took a shot together. We talked for a bit. Then he pointed with his chin at the wedding party, said, “Those your friends?”

            We watched them for a few seconds. I still had some fondness for the kid with the sick sister, but that was about it.
            “Once,” I said.

            The bartender set up the shots again. “I hear that.”

            I was still on the Fulbright in India, Cody, in a city called Patna, when you died. […]

read the rest of “Mass Ambiguous Loss” in the print-only edition of Third Coast Magazine, issue 52

for more insight into the title, read this