Alvin’s Tablecloth

With four hours of his Sunday already in the gutter, Alvin Weiss made his way slowly to the kitchen, hoping some swift cleaning or cooking or opening the fridge or closing the fridge would add an air of productivity to the day.

Alvin put a few dirty glasses in the dishwasher, heated up some leftovers, and grabbed a ginger ale—but still didn’t feel like he accomplished much.

There was the tablecloth. He could finally clean it. It’s been coated with a light brown beer stain—nay, multiple light brown beer stains—ever since he last had his college buddies over for poker. That was three months ago.

Mike got pissed after losing his pocket aces to a flush on the river, and did this joking thing where we pretended he was going to overturn the table, angrily, like they did in the old riverboat gambling talkies. Considering that Mike was actually pissed, he pushed the table a little more than he intended. It meant three Coronas puked onto the tablecloth.

“Sorry about your tablecloth,” said Mike. “But why the fuck don’t you have an actual poker table? We’ve had this monthly game for—what—two years now?”

Alvin shrugged. “Does it matter? It doesn’t change the game.”

“Don’t be a dick, Mike,” said Job.

Five similar comments later, and Alvin stopped hosting poker games. He actually stopped going. Theo hosted one the next month, but only Mike and one other guy who came once in a while—Dwight, was it—showed up. It’s not like there was some grudge everyone had against Mike. Life was happening, and it made it tough to get to the game. In Alvin’s case, though, that was mixed with some spite.

At Alvin’s bachelor party, Mike spent the whole time trying to get groups of women—bachelorette parties, mostly—to mash up with their bachelor party. Meanwhile, Alvin just wanted to have some fun—play some cards, have some beers, go home—but found himself up until 3 a.m. trying to make sure Mike didn’t go home alone. The other attendees don’t even remember it as Alvin’s bachelor party. Theo forgot Alvin was there.

Mike didn’t show up at Alvin’s wedding, but still led the charge to put together an awkwardly timed “divorce party” about two weeks before anything was finalized. He was that kind of friend. That kind of horrible, horrible friend.

That morning—the productive kitchen Sunday—Alvin did receive a Facebook invitation from Mike. It turns out Mike was helping with some volunteer auction and cocktail hour for the local hospital. But even the way Mike phrased the invite annoyed Alvin. The way Mike titled it, “Come Support My Hospital Work,” and used an exclamation point after the sentence, “These kids need our help!” Fuck Mike.

Later that night, Alvin sat alone, with a glass of 12-year scotch, with his laptop on his lap—that’s why they name it that, huh—watching the basketball playoffs. He had that Facebook invite in his inbox, and considered responding. Get his queue cleaned up.

He responded “Decline,” lied in a comment that said, “Sorry—out of town,” and set his laptop down on his filthy tablecloth and reheated the lunch he didn’t finish. Fuck Mike.