Wednesday, we were innocent insolents incidentally sitting together outside the Rookery enjoying the soft promise of the Spring to come. We tried to be good, to be social, relaxing, easy-going. Just a couple pitchers of beer, maybe a liquor drink -- maybe. And I'd only stopped by on my way to a movie.
A sold-out crowd and no balcony section hastened my return. It was a return to form, repentance. I hadn't been out in a while. I had been hiding and letting the monster grow. My friends, one by one catching sight of me, juggled their apprehension and enthusiasm. Far from being the missing link, I was simply the seal of fate -- now the collection was complete, the posse of legendary drunkards set. Like the Justice League or Superfriends before us, we would surround, support and strengthen each other's superhuman drinking prowless, propeling each other headlong into the dark morning. We would because we were then me, Soybean, Cardigan Slim, Grizzly Evans, the Principal, Hank Vegas, La Madonna and Knitty-Knitty Grandma. Not everyone would make it.
"What'll ya have, honey?"
"A Coke -- wait, no... a whiskey and Coke." Why have one without the other? Uggh, I forget their glasses taste like old grease. Oh well, let's do this.
Jewel Daddy stopped in with his Poetess and surveyed the damage to be done, envied it and backed out, which meant I wouldn't have anything to do with train tracks this night.
Then Grizzly announced the next stop: Synergy. No rhyme or reason but I didn't need one because I knew they kept alcohol there. Even learning that I'd be paying everyone's tab didn't deter me. I was ready. Apparently, the Principal and Grandma weren't, already detouring elsewhere along the way.
A round of Jagerbombs and bottled beer later, the ladies and gentlemen fanned out to opposite corners of the bar. I loaded the jukebox money and settled in between the two groups, supposing myself neither a lady nor a gentleman. Conversation was wherever I found it, so accidentally, I was chatting it up with a pudgy, hair gel-laden chap who'd settled in the Midstate from the Midwest because of Bass Pro Shops. He was a little exciteable in that quiet way, the sort of person who reminds me of a shaken soda can. I tried not to talk to him when I could help it, which wasn't often enough. Salvation came with insults about the songs I selected, Grizzly saying that I was lame -- an upgrade, I assume, from being a lameass.
La Madonna faked a cigarette and faked it well then snuck out. I bought a round of wintergreen schnapps then Hank and Grizzly left. Mad Roger Cash checked in, Soybean and Cardigan departed. Poker night had started. That was my cue.
The Hummingbird, most often the Alpha and Omega of my nights out, was this evening only the holding pen; I found everyone there. Its bar -- like a golden, supple teat -- nursed our misgiven ambitions, alternating the hard liquors with cheap American brew. My attention span was tested everytime a new tune was dialed up on the iPod. People wanted to talk, I wanted to cut to the chase, I wanted to drink.
I don't remember much more at this particular point other than we gained a member in the Non-Profit Pimp and a new setting, 550 Blues, was demanded. Hopping in the back of a truck while the others took the cab, the tuxedoed Pimp and I rode in stealth, ducking so our designated drunk driver wouldn't get pulled over. We talked about something, I paid more attention to the bottles of water rolling around the bed thinking, "I'll need some of that later."
Immediately, I ordered a drink and said something like, "I'm celebrating!" Two strangers, a salesman and his commission, asked what I was celebrating. Naturally, I said, "The birth of my first child!" Then the salesman put my beer on his tab. If he hadn't have done that, I would have confessed. Instead, I spent the better part of the hour elaborating on the lie.
I started with my joy, excitement -- I was excited to be having this kid. Then I offered worry. Was I ready for this? And worse, is this kid really mine? I was suspicious, I said. Both dudes were kind, supportive and friendly so I knew I had to keep going especially when the salesman said he was a "good judge of character" and that he could "tell when someone's lying". These skills, he said, he developed after years of working at a bar.
His friend left and I laid it on thick. When the opportunity arose, I introduced Soybean... as my sister, Sherry. She, I told him, had been kind enough to take me out to help me get things off my mind. Then she had the audacity to get on stage with Hank and sing. I had to praise her and Hank and split because it was too hot in the kitchen. Fortunately for me, Non-Profit Pimp struck up a conversation with the salesman and I was free.
Somewhere during this part, a co-worker said she felt I was her competition and nothing would dissuade her. Then she told us what her tattoos mean.
Cardigan Slim, it appeared, had only gotten started and showed me a side of herself that I found utterly frightening: she was worse than all of us combined, had the most power and without restraints could possibly destroy all the we hold sacred (meaning the bar). Thank god Grizzly was ready to roll.
Try as he might, he couldn't immediately reign in his lady. He walked out, did the "I'm gone" bit and still she lingered. He called my cell phone and probably others to give tidy descriptions of the cold, of the long road home, but still she wouldn't be moved. Finally, Soybean clubbed her on the head with a bottle and we put her in the truck.
The rest of us had been whittled down to four miscreants who had no convienent way home. So I pilfered the popcorn scooper and we walked. Soybean wanted to bow out and in protest, I added an orange safety cone to my collection as I walked her to her door. As I tried one last time to get her to keep partying with the big fish, we were met by an obstinant, gay black man who insisted, "She's fine, she's alright right here."
(Author's Note: I just fell over in my chair. It broke as I was leaning back.)
Even though we returned to the Bird, all I had was a water. Still, the Beast wouldn't quite cease. I took my refugee friends home, the Pimp first. Parked in his driveway, he made lustful comments about his neighbor who sat passively across the street before called her over. He felt like someone should have sex with her since he couldn't. On this point he was insistent and during a tour of his home, he let her know as much adding, "It'd make us all very happy if you took your shirt off."
"Would it?" She asked, acting coy and scaring me into thinking she might.
But she didn't and I politely advised her to "RUN!"
Hank and I, who've put the finishing touches on a few long nights before, were the last and we were craving Krystal's famous Chick'n Bites. At the drive-thru box, I placed our order and mistakenly affirmed that it was all we wanted. Hank, he wanted us to know, hankered for more and yelled, "Hold on, wait! I'm not through with you yet, bitch!" I tried to apologize and thought it worked because we were advised to pull up to the window.
There, a middle-aged woman, clearly not amused, stated plainly, "If that is how you feel then you can go to another Krystal's because we are not going to serve you." Both stunned and impressed, we motored over to Gray Highway to fill our needs and digest the lesson learned.
"Aw shit, the police," Hank noted when we pulled into the parking lot next to his place. A single cruiser parked, watching our every move and at random, shining a spotlight on us. Our every move was about eating. When it was all said and done, when the Chick'n Bites were gone, Hank turned to me and said, "You know, you can be arrested when you leave here."
"Yes, I know," I answered as if I'd already handed my fate over to God.
"Okay then. See ya later."
I was not arrested or even stopped, I assume, because I had the nerve to drive out past him again, waving as I went.
The natural rhythm of any good outing eventually winds down to a slow, patient beat as each instrumentalist quits the song, begging the drummer to finally fade out. At the foot of my bed, I did just that. Bellyflop, covered up and passed out. Goodnight.
At last count: seven mixed drinks, eight beers, four hours sleep, a long next day distributing the 11th Hour and promises to never do it like that again.
No comments:
Post a Comment