I was sitting there at the bar, a week sober, drinking a tonic water with a lime.
This is a serious readjustment for me,
I taste the fizz and lickity-pop of the tonic…
but it’s missing a sexy something that french kisses your soul as it gently gin-falls into eternity at the very pit of your stomach
Then swims into the nebulae of your brain wiping out galaxy-memories in a supernova-white-liquor-bomb style that is so beauteous,
it pains you to know that you have to live in this world,
no more black holes or assholes.
I laugh because I know.
You can’t drink anymore kiddo… doc’s orders.
Across the bar.
She’s sitting there giggly-drunk, over-perfumed and aged, waving at me to come over so I don’t have to sit alone with the train-wreck going on in my head.
I oblige, kindly, humor her with a few cheeky anecdotes then she does it.
I aim to please for the most part, but don’t ask me for recipes after I just got done working a fourteen hour shift in a hot fucking kitchen.
At that point, I hate food.
The smile still sits where it should as I give her a few ideas for dinner, then I change the subject,
break out the inconspicuous mini-psyche-pickaxe I carry with me at all times, to get a feel of who this person really is.
A lush and a liar but a good person all the same.
Conversations are half-assed when you’re a stranger in a bar halfway across the country from where you used to call home.
It’s a whole lotta talkin’ over each other,
interrupting incoherent stories or thoughts,
bullshitting bullshitter’s who eat, pray and love bullshit every day of their lives because they want to ignore everything and everyone and be happy all of the time.
I get it.
But life has ups and downs and you just gotta ride them friend until it ends.
There is always a common ground to be found, though, with anybody…
it’s called the earth.
We all ‘live’ here, so we should be common enough with each other, right?
Common ground, community barstool.
I Look to the left as a gentleman interrupts this waning lushed-out conversation run-around because he whetted my appetite for a new ride. Music.
I can dig this conversation because music is, for the most part, a big majority of my molecular make-up.
Band-name-dropping bombs left and right, trying to play some sort of musical battleship, is fun.
Then it’s down to the bones…
‘What do you do?’, he asks,
‘I’m a chef right now, you?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’ He says sternly but comically.
Life stories are bartered at bar tops for drinks.
He’s drinkin’ loosey-goosey-screwdrivers right into his skull all night; my drink is the cheapest it gets because it’s free.
The only fair bartender around town who has sympathy for me quitting the drink is workin’ right now.
I was just a piggy-bank-kid to all the other cocktail-pourin’, alcohol-whorin’ smiles around here.
Not any more and they all know it,
they despise me for filling up a no-money barstool on a thursday night now, even though I tip ‘em for the tonics when they charge me.
So the lawyer says he has to meet some clients soon.
I look at the clock, it’s almost ten p.m. Who in the hell has a late night…. oh you know what? Now I’m really interested.
He asks me if I want to follow him to meet up at another bar with some of his clients, he’ll pay for my tonic-no-gins all night he says.
What would you do?
We pull up to a joint that looks like the kind I avoid.
I call ‘em money-pits cause they show their tits,
but what the hell, he’s payin’.
We stroll in and I can see the lord shine’s his mighty light on this little slice of heaven.
Saggy-assed, gap-toothed, run-down run-amoks dancin’ to the worst possible music a stripper could ever hope or dream for…
Created: Jul 01, 2012The Astronaut-Saint Document Media