Sitting at the bar, just me and the bartender. She's a pretty girl, petite and sullen. Not much to say. Radio on, television with the sound off.
"Any way to get some volume on the TV?" I ask.
"Nah, I'll probably get yelled at. They only like the TV on for sports," she answers.
And that's that.
I have nothing else to do but sit here and drink and do the crossword in the newspaper.
3:00 in the afternoon.
I have all the time in the world and I have nothing to say to this pretty girl, who seems even more depressed than me.
But it's okay. This is all I want right now, just to sit here and have a beer or three and some chowder. That's all I want.
So we both watch the television with the sound off, nothing to say to each other.
Alone together in the bar.
Always.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Monday Is The New Friday
So here's how it works.
Friday night. You go out drinking. Everyone at the bar is out of their minds, total mayhem and chaos. Drinks are being spilled all over the floor. The bathroom is barely working, there's a huge hole in the side of the toilet that's covered up with blue tape and the floor is soaking wet. The jukebox is blasting so loud you can clearly hear the music outside. Everyone is yelling to be heard above the din. Everyone is sweating. It's a madhouse. At closing time, word gets out that somebody is having people over, the night is not done yet. So half the goddamn bar treks over to somebody's place and the drinking and the yelling and whatnot continues well into the night. Somehow, you get a ride home from someone at 4:30 in the morning. This person is an angel. You get home, climb the stairs and fall into bed. Done. Yes, you are drunk, but you are in one piece.
Monday night. You go out to meet a buddy for a beer or two, just to get out of the apartment. Nothing too crazy, won't be a late night. It's seven o'clock. The bar you're going to is right down the street. You get there, take a seat at the bar and order a beer. The game is on TV. Everything is low-key, it's somewhat quiet, nobody is yelling and hollering, the music isn't blasting. It's somewhat calm. Your buddy shows up, orders a beer and you shoot the shit. More beers. Then, all of a sudden, you're drinking a vodka tonic. Then, for some reason, a whiskey sour. Then another. You put a five dollar bill in the jukebox but it doesn't work. So you put another five in the jukebox, this time it works, and you play a bunch of songs you would probably never listen to otherwise, but you're so hammered that they're the best songs you've ever heard. Another whiskey sour. You pay the bill and leave.
Somehow you got home, because now it's Tuesday morning and your alarm clock is going off. You wake up, no idea where you are, except that there is vomit next to your bed. And over near the sofa. And there's also vomit in the kitchen sink. What a fucking mess. Your head feels like somebody has been kicking it with steel-toed boots. You think and think and think and have absolutely no idea how you got home. All you know is that you now have to get up and somehow go to work. Because it's fucking Tuesday, and you went out on Monday night and got completely trashed. Why? All you wanted was a beer or two. And this is what you got. You got what you deserved.
Friday night. You go out drinking. Everyone at the bar is out of their minds, total mayhem and chaos. Drinks are being spilled all over the floor. The bathroom is barely working, there's a huge hole in the side of the toilet that's covered up with blue tape and the floor is soaking wet. The jukebox is blasting so loud you can clearly hear the music outside. Everyone is yelling to be heard above the din. Everyone is sweating. It's a madhouse. At closing time, word gets out that somebody is having people over, the night is not done yet. So half the goddamn bar treks over to somebody's place and the drinking and the yelling and whatnot continues well into the night. Somehow, you get a ride home from someone at 4:30 in the morning. This person is an angel. You get home, climb the stairs and fall into bed. Done. Yes, you are drunk, but you are in one piece.
Monday night. You go out to meet a buddy for a beer or two, just to get out of the apartment. Nothing too crazy, won't be a late night. It's seven o'clock. The bar you're going to is right down the street. You get there, take a seat at the bar and order a beer. The game is on TV. Everything is low-key, it's somewhat quiet, nobody is yelling and hollering, the music isn't blasting. It's somewhat calm. Your buddy shows up, orders a beer and you shoot the shit. More beers. Then, all of a sudden, you're drinking a vodka tonic. Then, for some reason, a whiskey sour. Then another. You put a five dollar bill in the jukebox but it doesn't work. So you put another five in the jukebox, this time it works, and you play a bunch of songs you would probably never listen to otherwise, but you're so hammered that they're the best songs you've ever heard. Another whiskey sour. You pay the bill and leave.
Somehow you got home, because now it's Tuesday morning and your alarm clock is going off. You wake up, no idea where you are, except that there is vomit next to your bed. And over near the sofa. And there's also vomit in the kitchen sink. What a fucking mess. Your head feels like somebody has been kicking it with steel-toed boots. You think and think and think and have absolutely no idea how you got home. All you know is that you now have to get up and somehow go to work. Because it's fucking Tuesday, and you went out on Monday night and got completely trashed. Why? All you wanted was a beer or two. And this is what you got. You got what you deserved.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Not Your Father
"The whole thing is, there are those points in your life where you realize that you're completely wrong and you completely fucked everything up, and you know it, deep down, you truly know that you're completely wrong. And the thing is that you just accept that fact, say the hell with it, and then move on. See, you don't have the capacity for that. You honestly believe that you're right all the time, so you have no idea what someone such as myself goes through on an almost daily basis."
I was talking to the guy seated next to me at the Swill. He had just been yelling about the election or the football game or something, getting in my face and spitting in my eye. I was was trying to explain my point of view to him.
"Hey, I'm not your father," he said to me. "Don't take out those feelings on me. I'm not your dad."
"Oh yeah, I know that. You're taller than him."
I was talking to the guy seated next to me at the Swill. He had just been yelling about the election or the football game or something, getting in my face and spitting in my eye. I was was trying to explain my point of view to him.
"Hey, I'm not your father," he said to me. "Don't take out those feelings on me. I'm not your dad."
"Oh yeah, I know that. You're taller than him."
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Dark Ones
They're all different. Some are dark. Some are too bright. Some smell awful, like a mixture of vomit, urine and fear. Some have lots of wood, all nicked up and beer soaked. Some have lots of mirrors, so it looks like there are multiple rooms and you can see your reflection wherever you look, which may or may not be a good thing, depending on what time it is, how much you've had already and various other factors.
I tend to like the dark ones, the ones where you can sit there and have a drink and relax and the darkness sort of envelops you and is almost comforting in a way. I like dark colors too, lots of browns and maroons and blacks and deep reds. No neon for God's sake, this isn't a fucking skating rink. And no sudden movements, please.
I don't understand bars that are brightly lit. It just doesn't make sense to me. I went to this pub once in England and all of the lights were on, I almost needed sunglasses. That's not very conducive to a good night of drinking. I'm usually trying to escape the light, which is why most bars are attractive to me. In Los Angeles they have "dark bars", which are bars that are barely lit, you can barely see your hand in front of your face, never mind the glass you're holding. Those places have the right idea. Turn the damn lights off and let's drink.
I tend to like the dark ones, the ones where you can sit there and have a drink and relax and the darkness sort of envelops you and is almost comforting in a way. I like dark colors too, lots of browns and maroons and blacks and deep reds. No neon for God's sake, this isn't a fucking skating rink. And no sudden movements, please.
I don't understand bars that are brightly lit. It just doesn't make sense to me. I went to this pub once in England and all of the lights were on, I almost needed sunglasses. That's not very conducive to a good night of drinking. I'm usually trying to escape the light, which is why most bars are attractive to me. In Los Angeles they have "dark bars", which are bars that are barely lit, you can barely see your hand in front of your face, never mind the glass you're holding. Those places have the right idea. Turn the damn lights off and let's drink.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The Slashed Wrist
"I tell ya, I can't remember the last time the right flipper worked on this fuckin' thing. Hey, Frank! Why don'tcha buy a new friggin' pinball machine? This one's been here longer than Sammy, an' he's been here longer than that rusty rubber dispenser in the john! Christ. Speakin' of the john, I never noticed how much this draft beer tastes like piss. Hey, Frank! When was the last time ya cleaned out the lines for the draft beer? You want us all ta get hepatitus or somethin'? I'll sue, ya know! I don't care what my tab is. I'm not endin' up in the hospital cuz of some crappy booze! Not unless I drink myself there first. Jeezus! I can't even see the goddamn ball. Frank! There's about an inch of shit on the glass of this game! I can't even see the bumpers when they decide to light up! How am I supposed ta win a free game under these conditions? Hell, there's a good inch of crud covering everything in this pit, including most of the sorry bastards up on the bar.
"I don't know why the hell I come ta this joint. It constantly smells like puke, the jukebox only plays three different songs, and half of the lights don't work. Just as well. Who knows what you'd see on the floor in this shithole. Probably a dead body under that corner booth.
"Whatever happened to Pietro, Frank? He was an okay guy, y'know? Sure, he was ugly as sin and smelled like sulphur, and he had black teeth, but he was alright. Whaddaya expect, the guy worked at the plant there for at least twenty years. Ever since he got here. Never once saw him with a woman. Not once. That's enough ta drive a man over the paverbial edge. 'Course, the Slashed Wrist ain't really the place ta meet the ladies, now is it, Frank? Why don'tcha clean up this place a little? Huh? I'll help ya! In exchange for, say, a new tab? Fix the holes in the wall by the front door. God, no wonder nobody ever sticks their head in this place. Like stickin' your head in an oven, know what I'm sayin'? The outside looks just as bad as the inside! The front window is brown, fer chrissakes. Brown sunlight. That's what shines on us, brown and gray sunlight. When it's not raining, that is. Then, at least the outside gets a little cleaning.
"You alright, Frank? Ya look a little green. And yellow, too. I know it's not just the horrible lighting in here. Not much of a selection for booze back there, huh? A bottle of vodka, two bottles of whiskey...when's the last time ya stocked the bar? Yeah, I know Frank, I know. Times are tough everywhere. Even for them college graduates. I tell ya, I sure as shit am glad I didn't waste four or five years of my life on a diploma only ta have nothing ta show for it. Yeah, times are tough. And all a guy wants is a little booze ta help him forget.
"Don't worry, Frank. Business'll pick up. It's almost payday."
-taken from "Black Thanksgiving"
"I don't know why the hell I come ta this joint. It constantly smells like puke, the jukebox only plays three different songs, and half of the lights don't work. Just as well. Who knows what you'd see on the floor in this shithole. Probably a dead body under that corner booth.
"Whatever happened to Pietro, Frank? He was an okay guy, y'know? Sure, he was ugly as sin and smelled like sulphur, and he had black teeth, but he was alright. Whaddaya expect, the guy worked at the plant there for at least twenty years. Ever since he got here. Never once saw him with a woman. Not once. That's enough ta drive a man over the paverbial edge. 'Course, the Slashed Wrist ain't really the place ta meet the ladies, now is it, Frank? Why don'tcha clean up this place a little? Huh? I'll help ya! In exchange for, say, a new tab? Fix the holes in the wall by the front door. God, no wonder nobody ever sticks their head in this place. Like stickin' your head in an oven, know what I'm sayin'? The outside looks just as bad as the inside! The front window is brown, fer chrissakes. Brown sunlight. That's what shines on us, brown and gray sunlight. When it's not raining, that is. Then, at least the outside gets a little cleaning.
"You alright, Frank? Ya look a little green. And yellow, too. I know it's not just the horrible lighting in here. Not much of a selection for booze back there, huh? A bottle of vodka, two bottles of whiskey...when's the last time ya stocked the bar? Yeah, I know Frank, I know. Times are tough everywhere. Even for them college graduates. I tell ya, I sure as shit am glad I didn't waste four or five years of my life on a diploma only ta have nothing ta show for it. Yeah, times are tough. And all a guy wants is a little booze ta help him forget.
"Don't worry, Frank. Business'll pick up. It's almost payday."
-taken from "Black Thanksgiving"
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Gahbij
You know the type. The blowhard, the braggart, the loudmouth. The guy who starts talking to you as soon as you walk through the door, you haven't even ordered a drink yet and your coat is still on. He accosts you and verbally beats the shit out of you, you don't stand a chance in hell, because you weren't prepared for it. I mean, who is this guy? He assumes you know his name, even though you've never talked to him before, but you may possibly have seen him in here once or twice before, bellowing his bullshit. He's nuts. He has to be. Look at him. Total madman.
"Hey, how ya doin'? Here's a troublemaker right here, watch out for this one! Nah, just kiddin'. He's a good guy. I've met you before," he barks.
Really? I have no idea who you are. But I'm glad you judge me to be a good guy. And why are you yelling at me?
So you sit down, already battered and beaten up, and order a drink. The bartender asks if there's a game on television you want her to put on, so you ask if the basketball game is on. She tries to find it but it's not coming in for some reason, so you settle for a show of baseball highlights. Footage of Babe Ruth and Willie Mays and Ted Williams. Whatever, it doesn't really matter, it's just something on TV.
"Nah, you don't wanna watch that! What is that? Baseball? It's January! Put on the basketball game! You don't wanna watch this gahbij," he instructs you.
He's waving his hands around, a drink in one of them, ordering people around, holding court. He is now your best friend in the entire world, yet he will beat the shit out of you at the drop of a hat. Just agree with everything he says and hope for the best.
He's not a bad guy, he's just completely socially inept, so he makes up for it by taking control of every situation he's in and strongarming everyone into being his buddy. That's all.
Plus, he's buying a round a shots.
"Hey, how ya doin'? Here's a troublemaker right here, watch out for this one! Nah, just kiddin'. He's a good guy. I've met you before," he barks.
Really? I have no idea who you are. But I'm glad you judge me to be a good guy. And why are you yelling at me?
So you sit down, already battered and beaten up, and order a drink. The bartender asks if there's a game on television you want her to put on, so you ask if the basketball game is on. She tries to find it but it's not coming in for some reason, so you settle for a show of baseball highlights. Footage of Babe Ruth and Willie Mays and Ted Williams. Whatever, it doesn't really matter, it's just something on TV.
"Nah, you don't wanna watch that! What is that? Baseball? It's January! Put on the basketball game! You don't wanna watch this gahbij," he instructs you.
He's waving his hands around, a drink in one of them, ordering people around, holding court. He is now your best friend in the entire world, yet he will beat the shit out of you at the drop of a hat. Just agree with everything he says and hope for the best.
He's not a bad guy, he's just completely socially inept, so he makes up for it by taking control of every situation he's in and strongarming everyone into being his buddy. That's all.
Plus, he's buying a round a shots.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Hat Stays On
Mark was sitting at the bar, having a drink, his baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. He was just minding his business, trying to get a little drunk. Wasn't feeling very sociable. The woman to his right started to chat him up a little bit, but Mark really wasn't very interested. She was actually very annoying, like one of those kids that keeps poking an animal with a stick because they think it's funny. At least, until the animal snaps at them.
"Pull your hat up so I can see your eyes," she said to Mark. "Your hat's too low, I can't see your eyes. How can you see anything?"
"This is how I wear my hat."
"Take your hat off. It's too low," she persisted (poke, poke).
"I don't want to take my hat off. It's fine. I like wearing it like this. There's nothing to see anyway," Mark retorted, getting agitated.
"Oh, nothing to see? You don't wanna see me? You don't wanna look at me? What's your problem? Take your hat off."
"I don't really have any interest in looking at a whore right now," Mark explained.
"What? Did you call me a whore? What?"
Suddenly, the man seated to the right of the woman turned around to face Mark, asking "Did you just call my wife a whore?" Then he got up and approached Mark, murder in his eyes.
At this point, things started to become a little unhinged. The husband took a swing at Mark, who easily dodged it, and then everyone standing right there jumped on the guy who swung, creating a mini-riot at the bar, with the woman screaming her head off. The husband was really pissed off and was trying to get at Mark, who was standing off to the side drinking his beer, watching the events unfold.
The mass of bodies made its way to the door and spilled out onto the sidewalk, the husband at the bottom of the pile, yelling and flailing around, while his wife stood there screaming and trying to get someone to call the cops. Mark strolled over to the window next to the door and looked out, glad that he wasn't too drunk to dodge a fist. Then he walked back to his stool and sat down.
"Hey, why'd you call that guy a whore?" someone asked him.
"What are you talkin' about? That guy's wife wouldn't leave me alone and she kept telling me to take my hat off and she was pissing me off and wouldn't shut up."
"That guy's wife is a guy. He's a trannie. You didn't know that?"
Mark thought for a couple of seconds. "No, I didn't know he was a guy. I thought she was just some broad who wouldn't shut up. I didn't know his wife was a guy. What the hell? What the hell?"
Mark sat at the bar and finished his beer, wondering the whole time just what the fuck.
"Pull your hat up so I can see your eyes," she said to Mark. "Your hat's too low, I can't see your eyes. How can you see anything?"
"This is how I wear my hat."
"Take your hat off. It's too low," she persisted (poke, poke).
"I don't want to take my hat off. It's fine. I like wearing it like this. There's nothing to see anyway," Mark retorted, getting agitated.
"Oh, nothing to see? You don't wanna see me? You don't wanna look at me? What's your problem? Take your hat off."
"I don't really have any interest in looking at a whore right now," Mark explained.
"What? Did you call me a whore? What?"
Suddenly, the man seated to the right of the woman turned around to face Mark, asking "Did you just call my wife a whore?" Then he got up and approached Mark, murder in his eyes.
At this point, things started to become a little unhinged. The husband took a swing at Mark, who easily dodged it, and then everyone standing right there jumped on the guy who swung, creating a mini-riot at the bar, with the woman screaming her head off. The husband was really pissed off and was trying to get at Mark, who was standing off to the side drinking his beer, watching the events unfold.
The mass of bodies made its way to the door and spilled out onto the sidewalk, the husband at the bottom of the pile, yelling and flailing around, while his wife stood there screaming and trying to get someone to call the cops. Mark strolled over to the window next to the door and looked out, glad that he wasn't too drunk to dodge a fist. Then he walked back to his stool and sat down.
"Hey, why'd you call that guy a whore?" someone asked him.
"What are you talkin' about? That guy's wife wouldn't leave me alone and she kept telling me to take my hat off and she was pissing me off and wouldn't shut up."
"That guy's wife is a guy. He's a trannie. You didn't know that?"
Mark thought for a couple of seconds. "No, I didn't know he was a guy. I thought she was just some broad who wouldn't shut up. I didn't know his wife was a guy. What the hell? What the hell?"
Mark sat at the bar and finished his beer, wondering the whole time just what the fuck.
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