June 9, 2009

Jenny stares through the darkness at the ceiling. She isn't looking at me, I can tell, even though my head is on her chest, because she hasn't really been able to look at me now for a few days. "I feel like I've already lost you, you just haven't left yet," she says in a flattened tone that scares me. I don't really understand what she means, but I know enough to know that she believes it.

"You're going to get better," I tell her for the eleventh time today, and the fortieth time this week. But I'm certain this time she heard me. This time it'll make a difference. This time everything will be fixed and healed. This time we can get back to normal.

"Maybe I will," she replies. "I just don't see how we come out of this in a relationship. And right now, all I see is tunnel. I don't see any light, I can only see tunnel."

I lift my head toward hers, and she still doesn't look at me. "Listen to me," I say, "I'm here, aren't I?" Please let this talk-down be the last. Please, Lord, let it work this time.

And then she starts crying again, a wracking, sobbing cry that absolutely breaks my heart, the more so because I'm still convinced it's my fault. She turns away from me and curls into a fetal position, and all I can do is put a hand on her arm, stroke it gently, take a deep breath, forget my own pain, forget the questions of why, what I did this time, what I can do to stop this, what I can do to stop it from happening again, why all this has happened, why I said the things I did a few weeks ago, why, how, what... shove all that down, and wait.

The four guys in the corner wearing red and white break out in shouts and applause, and I don't have to turn around and look at the television to know something has happened that I won't like, but I do anyway. Sure enough, Cornell has taken a 3-2 lead against my beloved Wildcats, and I heave a sigh. One of the Cornell guys comes up to the bar shortly thereafter to order another pitcher, and points at the New Hampshire hockey jersey I'm wearing. To his credit, instead of needling me about the current score, he asks, "Hey, is that a game-worn?"

I smile. "No, just your basic campus store replica. A boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday one year when it coincided with a playoff game. What about yours? Are those real puck marks?"

"Yup, it was [Player]'s away sweater for a season," he says proudly, where [Player] is a name I can't remember even five minutes later. I will remember while writing this later, though, that it doesn't sound familiar to me from the last really important UNH-Cornell match-up in 2003, and this guy looks like a kid, so I assume it's more recent.

"Very cool," I say, handing him his pitcher and taking his cash.

"Hey, chin up," he adds as he starts to turn back to his friends. "Your boys have tied it up twice already today, this has been a great game!"

A great game if you like watching your team get outshot two-to-one on their own ice, I think to myself as I count the cash, do the math, and make a note: if this group is at all representative, Cornell boys seem to be good tippers. For some reason, New Hampshire is dominating Hockey East this year, but we can't seem to get the job done outside the conference. That's certainly no way to set up a national championship season, something I've been pining after for a very long time. I stand and watch ESPN-U for a minute, as Cornell continues their cycling-and-possession demonstration and clinic, free of charge to their opponents.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, Gretzky," says Lisa, "heads up. We have some customers who don't give a shit about a high school hockey game, get it in gear." I'm not used to being talked to like that, but this isn't the Bar, it's the Pub, and I'm low barmaid on the totem pole around here. I'm tempted to tell her snidely that it's college, something she wouldn't be familiar with, but that was probably her point - and I honestly don't want to piss her off, I need this job. I turn away, smile, and start to take an order, and my customer is still in between "Hefe" and "weizen" when the Big Red boys start cheering and high-fiving again.

Next time Game-Worn comes up for another pitcher, we've pulled our goalie during a power play for a 6-on-4, and we're putting a lot of pressure on, but so far to no avail. "Hey," I ask while I'm drawing their communal Sam Adams, "how did you guys end up here, anyway? Not that I would ever complain about you giving us business, but isn't there a Cornell bar or something anywhere in the city?"

"Yeah," he says, "on the Upper East Side. But usually an e-mail goes out beforehand, and this time we didn't see one. I live closer to the Pub anyway, and pardon my French, but it's really fucking cold out. We honestly had no idea one of the bartenders was a UNH alum. You've been a good sport letting us hang out."

"Listen, this next pitcher is on me," I tell him as I hand it over. "I don't care what color you're wearing, college hockey fans are few and far between enough - you're welcome here anytime."

He thanks me, tips me heavily, and goes back to his friends just in time to see his team put the nail in the coffin with an empty-netter. They start cheering and high-fiving again, and I go back to working my Sunday shift and trying not to get beer all over my jersey. It seems like the Yankees win a World Series every few weeks or so, why can't New Hampshire manage to win a Frozen Four?