“Sure thing,” Razz said, turning to the liquor rack behind the bar, grabbing tequila, vodka, rum, gin. I instinctively checked the daily special chalkboard by the host stand, felt the blood drain from my face.

2 for 1 Long Island Iced Tea!!

The Ultimate Tea Party!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could take that night back. Wished I’d just stayed home with Cassie, made box pasta with jarred sauce and gone to bed sober enough to hear Rox’s cries before he flipped out of his crib. It looked like this was my second chance.

Malia came from the back hallway and grabbed a stool a couple over from the guy intent on getting me lit. She pulled one out beside her as an invitation.

“Thanks, buddy,” I said to the guy from the bathroom, then took the stool by Malia. Would it surprise you to learn it was the same one I was sitting at that fateful night?

“Don’t mention it, pal. Next round’s on you!”

Malia grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins and used them to pat dry my hair. She gently brushed my face with the damp tissue and then dabbed my nose, like I was a toddler with a messy face. “Better?” she said.

I caffed. That’s a mix between a cough and a laugh. “Much.”

Razz was no mixologist. He was a drunkologist. Fuck the liqueurs and fruit rind; just serve ’em strong enough to strip paint. He topped off the two pint glasses with a splash of cola, stirred the drinks lazily with a spoon.

“Cheers, guys,” he said, setting my drink on top of a coaster picturing a performance seal drinking a Guinness.

“The girl can have the other one,” the guy from the bathroom said. “Want it?”

“Did Jeffrey Dahmer have good taste in men?” she said.

“Hey-ho! In more ways than one,” the man said. “You catch that one, Razz?”

“Yeah, hilarious,” Razz deadpanned. “Nothing funnier than cannibalism, as my dear mother used to say.”

The resemblance was uncanny. His voice, his mannerisms. This wasn’t someone pretending to be Razz. This was the man himself. Which, of course, was impossible. Unless we’d traveled back in time.

“Cheers,” Malia said, tilting a pint glass toward me that held enough booze to get a gorilla buzzed, and on that night I’d had a minimum of four.

This wasn’t funny. It was an insult. A deliberate attempt to reenact the worst night of my life. I’d leave my head in that sweltering wall for a week if I could get that evening back. To be able to take Rox to Little League ball games instead of life-skill centers. Play my guitar without giving him a migraine.

“No, thanks,” I said. This time I skewered her eyes with mine. “I don’t drink.”