I’m like Tevye with tradition. Everyone gets a blog on their birthday. Today, my friends, is Hastings. It’s hard to find the words to tell you the myriad of reasons I love Hastings, mainly because they’re so goddamn personal. Although that’s never stopped me before. Here goes:
Hastings recently joined Brock and me at Spruce for our “salon des bon mots” and as Brock and I drove home, he asked me about Hastings. I told Brock that 7 months ago, as the wheels were being put in motion for me to go to rehab, it was an ordeal to put one foot in front of the other. I won’t dive into just how bad it got (here) but it was some rough shit. So horrified at my life, I’d taken to hanging out in my office, until like, midnight. In the midst of this, concerned that something was obviously very wrong with me, Hastings declared he was coming by with a bottle of wine.
As we were hanging out at 10 o’clock at night, drinking this red wine out of paper cups, I revealed that I had something to tell him.
But then I hemmed. I hawed. It was impossible for me to find the words. He’s always looked at me with such blind admiration. Now he was about to know just what a hugely fucked up person I really am. The thought terrified me.
“Ugh, I don’t know how to say this.” I began to cry.
He was very reassuring as I sat still, unable to speak for 10 minutes.
Finally, he said, “Beth, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
And then, in all seriousness and earnestness, in the sweetest possible way, he asked, “Are you a lesbian?”
Tears streaming down my face, mascara covering my cheeks, I looked at him like he was nuts. And then I started laughing. I couldn’t breath, I was laughing so hard.
“No, I am not a lesbian!” I finally managed. “But I am an alcoholic.”
“And I need to go to rehab.”
“Oh my God. Okay. Um, oh God.” He stammered. “Why were you scared to tell me?”
I took a sip of my wine and answered, “Well, you’ve always looked up at me with this wide-eyed admiration and I just didn’t want you to know that…”
But Hastings had gotten off his chair, onto the floor, sat cross-legged with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
And he looked up at me with wide-eyed admiration.
Brock grabbed my arm. He had tears in his eyes. “My God, Beth.”
“I know. He’s the best.”
Brock clutched his heart and whispered. “I love him. Oh, how I adore him!”
I grabbed my phone, texting Hastings that Brock was smitten.
“No, no, no!” Brock grabbed the Blackberry. “He’s going to think I want to fuck him!”
Relax, Brock. He already thinks I’m a lesbian…
Happy Birthday Hastings!