No One Throws Up in the Alps

A love story

Jul 14, 2025

When we first met I was under the impression that you were a pretty shy guy. You were a pretty shy guy. You were quiet, pleasant, funny and shy. But that was before I knew about the Hidden Depths. I found out about those the night we were walking home from downtown, after having visited a few bars. It was a quiet Tuesday evening, but we were looking for the action. We almost didn’t find any. We’d been somewhere drinking, and had gone somewhere else drinking, and then somewhere else, and now we were finally headed back to your house. I wasn’t very drunk myself but as we stumbled up the road it became clear to me that you had entered a whole new space-time continuum. You had found a mega-galactic dimension. You were in a galaxy far far away. You were, in a word—soused, fried, wasted, bombed, plastered, gassed, loaded, lit, tight, stiff, sozzled, sloshed, crocked, blotto, pickled, or, putting it another way—inebriated. Some might say you were drunk.

We had been walking for about an hour. We were in a residential neighborhood—dark, quiet, nothing around but houses. Or so we thought. Then, up ahead, we saw a glowing light, a sign—stuck on the front of a low concrete building: “The Copper Rooster.”

“It’s a sign!” you exclaimed. You had a point. “We have to go in!”

I balked, but you were insistent. “Well, I do have to go the bathroom,” I said, “but I don’t want to hang out. I really don’t think we should drink any more.” I was worried that if you got any drunker I wouldn’t be able to get you all the way home, so to speak.

We went in. The Copper Rooster was a dive, the real thing—full of old hookers and worn-out traveling salesmen, slumped over the bar. The bartender was in her sixties at least, a cigarette tucked into her platinum blonde hair. Tired but friendly. I asked if I could use the bathroom. “Sure, love, be my guest.” I wasn’t in there very long, but as I was washing my hands, I heard her gravelly voice coming over the PA. “And now, presenting …James!” I paused, confused, because James is your name. The voice came over the PA again. “Everybody give it up for James!” This was followed by a half-hearted whistle, a few claps.

As I walked back into the room, I saw a dry-erase board propped up against a table. “Tuesday night only, $2.00 Karaoke!” it said. There was a portable spotlight on the table, and it was shining on …you. You stood, beaming, next to a mic stand. I still didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t know you that well, and I definitely didn’t know that you had a penchant for karaoke. But most of all I didn’t know what happened to you when you listened to Rush.

Suddenly, the music to Tom Sawyer came on. The spotlight became a strobe light, flashing on you. You grabbed the mic and began to ~~sing~~ mesmerize the inhabitants of the Copper Rooster. I watched, amazed. Your skill was incredible. You sang, spun, and wailed like Geddy Lee on steroids. You hit all the high notes. You ripped on the air guitar. You killed the drum solos. At the climax, you threw yourself on the floor and writhed around, still singing. The crowd went wild, the traveling salesmen were on their feet, the prostitutes were head banging. When it was over, I stood stunned, unable to say anything. The beautiful representatives of the Copper Rooster—Tuesday night edition—crowded around you. “What was that? That was the best performance I’ve ever seen! Where did you come from? You’ve got to come back!”

I stood quietly by your side, speechless but proud.

After a few more beers, “It’s on the house! A rockstar like you? Put that wallet away, sir!” I got you out of there. And against all odds, I got you home, if you know what I mean. If I’d had any hesitancy about the future of our relationship up to that point (I had) after seeing this side of you I knew I was doomed. It wasn’t exactly the way I had wanted to fall in love, but what could I do? No one could possibly live up to you and your—no longer hidden—depths. I sure never thought I’d be saying this, but thank you, Geddy Lee.

The last time I ever got drunk was a few years later, on another Tuesday evening. We were having a quiet dinner at home. You had bought wine like you did sometimes, so I poured us each a glass. We ate on the sun porch overlooking the street with the windows open—the air felt good coming in across the table. I hadn’t been drunk in years by then but for some reason I decided to have a second glass, and then a third, and after that I finished the remnants of a bottle that had been sitting in the refrigerator, too foul to drink, for months. I hadn’t been drunk like that since the time—right before I met you—when I got kicked off the stage at a hip hop show for trying to grab the mic and rap alongside the performers. The bartender at that place, who I knew and had a crush on, was cool about it—after they booted me he came out and said he was looking forward to meeting up when I was less drunk. He had long greasy hair and played in Portland’s best metal band, a band so good I felt flattered that anyone in it would hang out with me. That makes me sound awful and like a slutty sycophant type of person, which is what I am. A few weeks later I went with him to see your band play and afterward the three of us sat at the bar and I watched while the two of you realized about each other. Then you were both angry with me but I was angrier with myself for being so stupid; I had forgotten about your feelings. I always forget about Men’s Feelings because I’m too busy worrying about mine. It never occurs to me except in retrospect that maybe guys are feeling things too and maybe they’re just confused or, let’s face it, hopelessly clod-headed.

But even that painful scene at the bar wasn’t provocative enough for you to profess undying love; that only happened later, after the time you walked in while I was standing with Dylan by the jukebox at the Red Flag. You came in and saw me and Dylan and pretended not to but I saw how you looked at us and I loved you for it. You really gotta see a man when he’s down sometimes. There was nothing between me and Dylan although it took you thinking there was for you to profess the undying love, so it was all for the best—as good as if I had planned it, which I hadn’t.

So it had all worked out, and I had happily buried my excesses in the past, until this one Autumnal Tuesday, when I started drinking like I’d been bitten by a rabid pony and wine was the only antidote.

We finished dinner. You began to clear the table, but I had other ideas. I ran to the bedroom and opened the closet. There was a lot of laughing, I remember, mine—not yours. You weren’t drunk. You seemed a little startled by what was happening, but happy enough to go along for the ride. I remember that I decided it would be a good idea to put on my vintage Swiss hiking boots. I thought it would be a good idea to put those on, as well as a large frame backpack. I remember shoving my broken Minolta at you and insisting you take pictures of a “Sexy Hiker.” I remember that I decided to trek to the kitchen, where, to anyone with a vision, the white tiled countertop looked like nothing so much as pure alpine snow.

“I’m a Sexy Hiker and you’re a photographer for National Geographic!” I exclaimed, propping self and large frame pack seductively against the counter.

“Oh, okay, is this the Exotic Animal segment?”
“I’M A SEXY HIKER!” I remember bellowing.

“Okay, well, that’s really something, but maybe we should get you to bed now…”

“Oh you men, you’re all the same!”
“Yep. Here’s a bowl if you need to throw up.”

“I don’t need to throw up! We’re in the Swiss Alps! No one throws up in the ALPS!”

I remember later, as I lay in the bath, the stainless steel of our IKEA salad bowl as it floated, bobbing gently in the water where you had put it for me—just in case.

What’s not to love?