Because Jesus hates you

I gulp the last of my second beer and clunk the glass on the bar top just as round three arrives. The bartender puts three brimming shot glasses next to the sweating pints. Tim hands a shot glass to me and to the other guy whose name I’ve already forgotten.
“Here,” Tim say, “because Jesus hates you.”
“Whiskey?”
“Yeah. Wild Turkey.” He picks up the third.
“It’s gonna be that kind of night, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I’m your drinking coach. It’s my job to make you push yourself.”
“Well then.”
We clink glasses, tap them on the bar top, and drink. My eyes begin to water from the fumes before I even pour the liquid into my mouth. A light burning and stinging in the eyes then the nose, on the lips, a mix of burning and warmth on tongue and inside of the cheeks, gulp and the heat slides down my throat into my belly. I grimace, grunt, set the glass down. Cool beer chases, tasting much sweeter now after the whiskey.
The song over the bar speakers changes, I point up toward the ceiling.
“This one?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Tim and I both write on the back of a beer napkin. Other dude raises his eyebrows.
“We’re seeing who knows the most songs. I usually win but out of the people I usually drink with Nate’s the only one who sometimes ever beats me.”
“Ah. So what song is this?”
“X. The World’s A Mess It’s In My Kiss,” I say. The guy nods.
“How many you got tonight?” Tim points toward my napkin with a quick lift of his chin. I count the titles.
“Eight. You?”
“Ten.”
“Shit. Well, it makes sense, you’re about two points more punk than me.”
“Damn straight.”
“Were you always more punk than me?”
“Probably, but you definitely lost at least one point when you had a kid.”
“Did I get a point taken away or did I just fail to continue gaining points like you’ve done?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Fair enough.”

Another beer and a shot later and for some reason I’m trying to recall Catholic prayers.

“My grandma always said ‘the Catholic religion, it’s a beautiful religion, I just wasn’t raised Catholic so I’m not Catholic, I’m a Christian.’”
“Your grandma thought Catholics weren’t Christian?”
“I don’t know, I never asked. She liked the imagery and the ritual and whatnot, either way. It’s funny because we had to learn all that shit in high school, the prayers and stuff - “
“In high school? Oh yeah you went to Catholic school - “
“Yeah. But I can’t really remember it. I remember we used to make up new words, like Our Fathers who are in heaven, Howard be thy name, deliver us a pizza, stuff like that. But I can’t remember the actual prayers.”
“Billy will remember, he’s Polish.”
“Who?”
Tim points to the bouncer, who sees this and walks over.
“Hey what’s up Bill?”
“Not much bro just working.”
“This is my buddy Nate.”
I nod. We shake hands.
“Tim says you’ll know the words to all the Catholic prayers.”
“What?”
“For some reason I was trying to remember the prayers, like the Hail Mary and stuff.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that. Man I haven’t been to mass in years. I mean other than Christmas with my mom.”
“So it’s hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord… something. What next?” I ask as I finish beer five. My stomach twists a little. The whiskeys were probably a mistake.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death. Amen”
“Got it. I remember bits of it from high school, we had mass once a month, but I couldn’t remember it all.”
“I’m Chicago Polish Catholic, I had that drilled into my head every Sunday for years and years.”
“Okay let me see if I’ve got it back now. Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with … with…”
“Thee.”
“The lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Uh… Mary… Uh… Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us at the hour - “
“Holy Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners, now -
“now and at the hour of our death.”
“Yup.”
“All right then. Time for me to switch to water. Tim, water for you?” He nods.
“And you, water too man?” I ask Tim’s friend.
“Yeah, thanks.”
I order three waters, tip three singles.
“Hey thanks,” the bar tender says.
“Sure man, I figure it’s just as much work as pouring any other drink.”
The bar tender fist bumps me. I carry the water back to our table, running a mental tally. If it’s one glass of water per proper drink, then that’s six? five? No seven glasses. My bladder’s gonna bust, I think as I set the glasses down on the table.
“Water’s a good idea,” Tim says.
“I think I’m still gonna be hurting tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Because Jesus hates you.”
“And all of us.”
“True, but especially you.”
“Cheers to that.” We clink our water glasses. The cold makes my teeth hurt.

I finish the water in big gulps, set the glass back down and turn to look for the bathroom. My stomach sloshes inside. Oh god. It’s like my stomach had forgotten how much I’d been drinking until the movement of the water suddenly reminded it. Don’t throw up. I think the shots are landing now. I hope this is the second I’m feeling and not just the first. This is the worst part of drinking, when you’re already drunk but there are more planes in the air that haven’t landed yet and you’re not sure how many still have to land, and when they will.

I burp, and the pressure’s less but the sloshing feels worse. I take small steps through the crowd, moving toward the back of the bar. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death,” I mumble to myself. The bathroom door is locked, my bladder is suddenly very, very insistent. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”