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The thing I've written that's been published. All true, the only thing that isn't true is the fact that I omitted the copious amount of cocaine that kept me up until six. Anyway it was a pretty funny evening, and not half as exciting as quite a few other bar occurrences, but for some reason this is the one that gets published, go figure...
Liquid Justice
I am sick. I stayed up until six a.m. this morning. I am awake at ten because my new neighbor is moving furniture. As I open my eyes, the sunlight that drowns the room blinds me. The hideous scrunching, scratching sound of furniture feet across hardwoods and tile fill my ears. It is, for all my efforts to deny it, my time to wake. My stomach is rotten. Sitting on the toilet before the shower, after the shower and every hour for the next four isn’t my ideal way to work through a hangover.
The prescription for a cure? One, drink water all day. Secondly, eat what you can, prepackaged or leftover. Third, don’t waste time and energy cooking. You won’t like it once it’s done anyway. Finally, smoke pot, play video games, and watch movies. These are the rules to be followed and the rules I usually abide by.
By eight thirty in the p.m. I’m healed. Not entirely, but I am well on my way to recovery. The decision had been made that I would stay in. Staying in means less damage to the bank account, the head, the stomach and the liver. I am going to feel good on Sunday. I am going to feel like I can conquer the world. God said, and I’m paraphrasing, “Let Sunday be a day of rest.” Not for me, I’m going to be razor sharp. The phone rings. I cringe. I’m sure it’s ever present request for an outing by those who had been occupied elsewhere the night before.
It’s Scott, with the Moff assuredly in tow. “You going out?”
“Naw. I ****ing wrecked.”
“Come on man, were heading back from the most awkward of awkward weddings and we need a drink.”
He doesn’t have to be much of a salesman. I’m sold already.
“Hugo’s in twenty.” He says.
“Make it thirty.” I say.
“Done.”
“Done.”
I hang up the phone and wonder what I’ve done. Not only have I agreed to go out for a drink but I agree to have one at one of the swankiest joints in town. I am an idiot and I am not getting dressed up. A sock hat finds its way to covering my chaotic hair. Torn jeans adorn my lower body. My coat smells like stale cigarettes and beer. I am sure I look exactly like I feel and I don’t give a shit.
On my walk I enjoy three quarters of a Pabst Blue Ribbon but throw it down when I near a street with a few too many lights. It’s cold outside and I’m shivering because of the cold but funny enough, the beer tasted good. As soon as I toss the quarter of a can I wish I hadn’t. I see two lone men dressed in long black coats smoking on what must be one of the most frigid patios in the nation.
“Gentlemen.” I greet them.
“What’s happening?” Says the Moff.
“Hey,” replies Scott, “you look like a dog turd.”
We walk inside and I begin to enjoy my four-dollar beer. We banter, discuss the wedding and check out the scene. I am under dressed and these two look like they should be on the cover of GQ. I still do not give a shit. What has caught our attention is the mountain of tail that’s parading around inside this establishment. Breast exploding from blouse tops and long beautiful legs encased in knee high boots are everywhere. I especially cannot afford this scene. We all get one last eye full of all these lovely winter vixens and at my suggestion make our way out to the cold.
We stop at our usually dive. Zooloo’s is warm and smells of stale smoke. None of us are drunk, so there are no women here worth talking to. The bartender’s a nice girl but involved. Scott hates this place. It is a point of pride that he unabashedly bitches about this place at every opportunity. I try to supersede him.
“One beer and a shot. That’s it.” I say as Moff joins us with a gin and tonic.
He looks at Scott. “You not drinking?”
Scott simply shoots him a look like he should know better. He does know better and just shakes his head. It has been agreed that we should head to a bar that hasn’t been graced with our presence. The choice is Mickey Finn’s. An Irish bar with a reputation to play some well liked music and serve some reasonably priced beer. Not the cheapest, but reasonable is all we can ask for. Not quite the dive like Zooloo’s and certainly not the caliber of Hugo’s, we batten down for a couple more beers.
Then, there he is. Goddamn it! There’s one in every bar at sometime of the night. The guy that’s way too drunk, thinks he’s the funniest ****er in the place, and plays the air guitar. Yes sir, he’s here spilling beers and throwing coasters at his idiot buddies. It takes me all of five seconds to be annoyed. Scott and Moff are well aware of him too. I grit my teeth so hard I can feel it in my eye sockets. I see Moff cringe when he hears another full beer fall on the floor. Moff was a bartender in a previous life. For him, dropping a beer is an offense punishable by death. Next to the sickening retching of a good drunk puke, the sound of a full beer hitting the floor is the worst for a bartender.
I’m tired of this goon. I can tell the waitress is annoyed and something must be done.
“Lets buy him a shot of Jimmy Beam.” I say.
The two sets of eyes light up with the prospect of administering some justice and getting a good laugh. Scott breaks out his wallet and pulls out a twenty.
“Do it.” He says with more conviction than I’ve heard from anyone in along time. Moff and I each pull out a couple of bucks and make Scott put away the twenty in exchange for couple of George Washingtons. All in all, we have about twelve bucks.
“Are you gonna clean up the puke?” The waitress asks us.
Her words are against us but through her tone and her eyes we know she wants in.
Scott issues a request. “Tell him it’s from a chick or something.”
“No.” She says. “It’s from some dude who was in here, thought he was cute and just left.”
We all like this plan immensely. The shot arrives. The guy’s head is bobbing already but at the prospect of a freebie he is awake and ready. He smells it and shakes his head “no”. I hear our agent of liquor allocation say something about female genitalia.
We try hard to hide the anticipation. All our eyes are glued on this unwitting stooge. The shot hits his lips and his cheeks balloon. His face is pale. He begins to make his way for the door and a small spurt of liquid emits from between his pursed lips. He reminds me of a cherub on a fountain. His feet hit the sidewalk momentarily followed by a volcanic display of vomit. I feel something like joy in my heart. He is gone for several minutes before he returns and orders some water. Our plan worked like a charm. Put in the “V” file, “V” for victory.
My feeling of joy is slightly undermined with a feeling of pity for the bouncer. But as they say, there is no war without casualties. He looks like someone punched him in the stomach as he’s dragging a mop and bucket out to the sidewalk. We keep watching our newfound friend. He’s quiet and subdued. His face is pale and sickly. He’s no longer making an ass of himself. We’ve done him a favor. The waitress walks by and Scott slips a twenty into her hand.
“Spilt that with him.” He says pointing through the window at the bouncer.
“I will.” She says.
We know she will too. She has this look on her face like she’s a judge and the prisoner she’s condemned to death has just had his sentence carried out.
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