It was all unremarkable in the beginning, with the basic reason that people congregate in the first place: to talk about other people. But mostly, it was talking about other people’s misfortunes – not so much for satisfaction as for amusement, but surely that’s no excuse. Alas life, in all its halting unpredictability, had always been ready to pounce. Triumph and defeat had slowly gnawed at inspiration and innocence, leaving only the very core, which was in all quite wise and convincingly experienced.

 

And so it was that Mr Clearwater, Tiger, the Director and I decided to meet at a bar every year on Valentine’s day. Some basic rules arose out of necessity, but in unspoken agreement:
1. Unless you are in a relationship, you must attend.
2. If Valentine’s day is the day before a work day, leaving at midnight is fine.
3. For what ever reason or topic where a toast is called, everyone must drink.
4. If you are unable to come because you are out fucking somebody, you must buy at least two rounds next year.

And every year, each of us only became stronger in our convictions, each of us found his own reason for attending more and more compelling.

 

Every year the Director would promise us that he would be going home with somebody by the end of the night. He would repeatedly excuse himself to check out the bar and the surrounding area, and come back with a brief report of the state of the bar. Now on regular days he certainly had a lot of game, however every year he would drive home alone with his blue balls and beat off to stacks and stacks of the homemade porn which was his source of pride. In bed, he would lie on his back, touching himself and still thinking of that faceless girl he didn’t hook up with. And he would be still for a couple of hours while despair embraced him, and he’d curse that elusive girl, the one who was more lonely than he.

Tiger was the kind of person who didn’t believe in celebrating anything “just because everybody does it”. During one such year, he had been in a happy relationship, but came to meet with us anyway. Another year, he had been having sex. Tiger valued conversations which degrade depending on the alcohol, and always left the bar having learned the most.

Mr Clearwater always brought laughs and optimism, sometimes too much that his hand would be shown. Mr Clearwater was the biggest sucker for romance. Every year he would come and always at some point in the night he would tell us that next year he wouldn’t be there. Mr Clearwater had perfect attendance (eventually as with all traditions we outgrew this whole thing) and always drank the least.

Then there’s me. The one who needed no emotional satisfaction from relationships. The first year, I had pitched my ideal marriage arrangement to these guys: keep romance separate. It made a lot of sense, and the Director (who was also terribly romantic) had once said he was considering switching to my mentality. I had long ago decided that I would be content to meet my romantic interests by chance, and that I would rather plan married life around some good friend who shared this worldview with me. As such, Valentine’s day had no effect other than being a dependable, easy to remember date for a night out drinking. I was always the talker. I would leave every year satisfied but unfazed, unimpressed, and largely unchanged.

 

There were new characters and settings, and the events were different. But every year the stories were the same. Some years one of the guys would pick up smoking, and some years only two could make it. Sometimes it was our triumphs and defeats. But mostly it was other people’s misfortunes. Not so much for satisfaction as for amusement and toasts. But surely that is no excuse.