Hoping for a prize inside!?!
Two cops are rolling a guy as I approach the bar. I have to laugh. It’s the good old day again. All his crap on the hood and his hands in cuffs I look away to the door of the bar and wonder what sort of story I am likely to hear.
“Scotch and Soda on the rocks!”
The place is half empty. The TV LCD monitors looking down from on high filled with another instantaneously forgettable football game. LCD is the code for lowest common denominator. Which incidentally, this place is a repository of. A bunch of loud mouthed asshole leaning off the stools arms and elbows on the bar. Mean looking fuckers with nothing but bad attitudes pasted over their puss.
Me? A pain in the back from sitting in the same spot for nine and a half hours since seven, doing work for the man with the money. Retied without my consent so I take what I can get. Sad story, but fuck it.
“Thank you lady!” (ice rocks clinking) Two on the bar for respect.
I raise the glass to my lips. I feel punchy. Too much stress I’m burning out. [Looking over the bar] We’ve lost the art of life [no smiles]. Camaraderie is dead. Surly bad ass, smart ass , playing tough is the order of the day. But then who cares? [My own] blank expression mind numb dead weight dance with time. The appropriate golden oldies swinging on a trapeze overhead.
Go to you neighborhood bar and see civility. Lotsa talk, but no walk! You can go from one end to the other and it is all the same. A lot of pussy sounding F’U’s on the front end of every sentence, but if push came to shove after the first tap they’d melt away like ice cream.
A bit of a push down the row on the shoulder of the black guy. Something that cardboard white hero would never try in the street. The last guy coming out of here courtesy of the strong arms of John Law had simply shit himself. Figures! Sent up the river for dirty boxers. Obviously a felony in this Lilly livered overly polite PC human warehouse.
“Scotch on the rocks!” [with a nod as my daddy taught me]
The tab jumps up a couple of bucks. One buck only for some waning respect on my end. Call’s cost Cheap booze doesn’t. Take your hangover [from tomorrow] somewhere else if you don’t like it! [I haven’t said a word] My ticker will be thumping extra heavy throughout the night despite. Squish Squash!
In the end it, after a couple, it doesn’t matter if you are home or here. In the meantime you get the extra special benefit of complete numbness thanks to the noisy J-box and the raucous voices of the ravens. Those other fools who can’t hear themselves make asses out of what is left of their characters. At home you would have to contend with that loathsome inner dialogue telling you what you don’t want to hear. Better these jerks in the end. A very expensive solution, in so many ways.
Was there anything genuine about Madonna? [“Into the Groove” blasting somewhere] “No.”
That formulaic numbness all about the lower limbs setting in from sitting here too long. The body wasn’t designed for this. So also wasn’t the soul.