Broke

She called and asked me if I wanted to have lunch.
I said “sure, but it would have to be someplace cheap, I’m having those ‘day before payday blues’”.
“Oh. Don’t worry about it, it’s on me.” She said. “I want to go to that fancy place near the futon store.”
That fancy place was little more than a bar with napkin holders, a sign outside with all of the lights working, and an overly expensive menu.
“Okay, I can meet you there.” I said.
“Sounds great, I’ll see you then.”
I arrived at the restaurant before she did so I took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and waited. She came in at the half way mark of the glass.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, traffic was heavy.”
“Not a problem.”
“Let’s order, I’m starving.” She said.
It had been about a week since we had seen each other. She went to school full time and worked at the school bookstore, I had a job at the record store. Our last night together was magic, it was sweaty and raw. It was as if the world was ending and this was going to be the final fuck.
Our food arrived and I ordered another beer, she ordered a cocktail, something pink and fruity.
We didn’t talk much then, every now and then we would glance at each other and she would smile. It was a sweet but sad smile.
The bartender took our plates; she pulled out a pack of Parliaments, gave one to me and lit one for herself. We continued with our drinks.
“I’m happy to see you.” She said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you.”
She gave me that sad smile again, this time it didn’t feel as sweet.
“I think we need to break up.” She said quickly.
Then the tears came. I saw one drop into her drink.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because things are going too good, I think I’m in love with you and it’s only been two months. What if we get into a fight? You’ll hate me and you’ll leave, I don’t ever want to fight with you.”
“People fight, couples fight all the time, and it doesn’t really mean that it’s the end.”
“But what if it’s really bad? I couldn’t deal with that.”
She cried more, people stared at us. She got out of her seat, grabbed a napkin, and ran to the ladies room, sobbing and sniffling. The bartender came over and grabbed my empty pint glass. He stared at me sternly as I asked for a scotch and soda, lighting another of her Parliaments. He didn’t say anything as he made the drink; I didn’t say anything as he pushed it in front of me. I could feel the contempt from his eyes, from his flared nostrils, from the vain in his forehead, from his cheap red tie loosely hanging around his thick flabby neck.
She returned to her seat with red eyes, and mascara running. She looked tired, used up, spent. As if all that crying had taking the life right out of her. She quickly gathered her things into her purse, put on her coat and hugged me, her arms choking me as she began to sob again. Louder this time. She whispered that she would always love me then ran out the front doors. I knew then that I would never see her again. That was just a little too dramatic for me.

I turned back to the bartender as he was placing the tab in front of me. It was $28.50; I had thirty dollars and a half pack of camels in my pocket.
At least tomorrow is payday. I thought.
I gave the bartender the thirty dollars, he returned with the change. I left what was there as a tip.
I didn’t know what to think, that had to have been the fastest and strangest break up in history.
The walk back home was cold, the wind biting and bitchy.
It didn’t really dawn on me until later in the night after a few beers: She broke up with me and I paid for lunch.
She got me twice.

New place to go for new words

My friend Kevin Elliott from A Slant Truth (in the links section) has started a new group writers blog called Satellite Heart. I'll be posting what I'm calling micro fiction there from time to time and if you're interested in writing jump in head first and see what happens.

The Birth of The Wino

Last night I’m at Sherry’s apartment checking out her photos that will go into the next issue of Needles for Teeth, she offers me a choice of two bottles of wine and not being the big consumer of wine I just point and grunt and then there’s half a glass of whatever I’d chosen in front of me. I sipped at the wine and didn’t get that usual bitter-tangy taste that comes with getting the cheap stuff. “This is really good wine, I love this stuff” she says. And after eating some pasta she gets into showing me her photos. Sherry couldn’t drink because she’s on antibiotics due to recent dental work. I finished off the glass pretty quickly soon after and she pours me another about half full (or was it half empty?) we lit cigarettes and continued digging photos of Yellow Stone and ruined apartments under construction. After about a half hour that glass was empty and she poured me another, a little more then half this time. And I realized after a couple of gulps that this was the best wine I’d ever had, it was the nectar of the gods of art and language, the sweet, sweet taste of life and love, it was a warm breeze in November after an afternoon rain, the cooing breath of a lover on your neck, it was magic, it was sex, it was fucking out of goddamn sight!
Soon I was very content and comfortable, my throat felt covered in molasses, and my speech didn’t slur more than it simply slowed. I noticed the tone of my voice slide lower and lower with each sip. I was in a momentary slow motion that I didn’t want to end. The slightly darkened apartment was illuminated in neon colors of blood red and blue ruin. Her cats ran around slowly it seemed, purring, fighting and jumping at heights as if they’d been to the same facility as the Six Million Dollar Man; the bionic sounds were optional, I chose them for aesthetic reasons. The glass empty again, I’d chosen about 10 photos by then, had about 8 cigarettes, and at least 4 visions. I had the thought of having more of this life affirming wine and more arrived as if my telepathy was working at 6 bars instead of 1. This is better than anything I’ve ever had in my life, I’ll be a dedicated Wino from here on out, to hell with beer, whiskey, whatever else. The wine is the way, the wine is the life. I will spend all money on this; I will waste no time in collecting bottles and strategically placing them through out my flat, to always have a bottle at arms reach no matter where I sit, even in the bathroom.
After another hour or so we’d gone through all of the photos, I’d ended up with about 20 total for distribution through out a few upcoming issues with option to see more as Sherry takes them. I finished off the last of the bottle of the great blood colored elixir.
“Sherry,” I said slowly, vociferously. “I drank all your wine, I’m sorry, it couldn’t be help.”
“Oh that’s okay sweety; it’s good, I’m glad you liked it.”

I left Sherry’s apartment at 1:30am and made my way home. I felt light and heavy while walking, and I didn’t have a coat, but the wine kept me warm. I now fully understand the power of good booze in wintertime. I didn’t feel any cold; it was nighttime spring for me.

This morning I awoke to the cats scrapping and yelling, wrecking up the place but it didn’t bother me in the least. I had no noticeable hangover, nothing lingering except the memory of the wine and the contentment. I was calm, euphoric. There was no regret of being awake and having to make the day job, no remorse at getting home as late as I did. Everything was good. And there was even a few cigarettes left in the pack to go with the morning coffee.

But now, I’ve come to realize that I never got the name of the wine, I can’t even remember what the label looks like.

I’ll have to call Sherry and get that information. But I still have to stick around the day job until my time here is done. I’m beginning to grow impatient; I’m starting to hate this place all over again.

I need to get out; I need to go to the liquor store. The life of The Wino awaits!

The Hell!?

You are a Tortured Conceptual Artist. Your fellow
postmodernists call you an anachronism, but
you've never cared much about the opinions of
others. After all, most of them are far too
simple-minded to appreciate the nuances of your
work. They talk, while you are part of a lived
tradition.


What kind of postmodernist are you!?
brought to you by Quizilla

This place will drive you to drink

That’s what’s printed on my coffee cup that I keep at work. It’s a reminder of what I know I’m gonna have to do when I get home from the day job, it’s a reminder of what I, and I’m sure thousands (oh fuck it right, millions) of others, have to deal with on a daily basis; the ignorance and unoriginality of people coming into your life in a place that you have to be at in order to maintain something of a life, coming into your office area to steal the coffee you made and try to make with the useless and banal small talk: “Staying out of trouble? Having fun yet? Working hard??” Its annoying shit, dig? Most people I know at my day job who ask these questions don’t drink, in fact, they don’t do anything. Maybe shop at Wal-mart or Bed, Bath, and Beyond; also boring and unoriginal, they’re made for each other now that I think about it.
Sometimes people ask me if I’m going to the pub after work, I say ‘Well, of course I am.” And they giggle at that, one woman I work with called me an alcoholic, and I told her that I wasn’t.
“What makes you so different?” She asked.
“I don’t go to goddamn meetings and the only guilt I feel is not having more money.” I answered. “The only twelve steps I take are to the mens room.”

There are a lot of people at my job that drink though, maybe not as much as I do, but there are few that definitely drink more than me. I know of a couple of cats who keep bottles in their office, in desk drawers. There’s a guy who has a mini fridge stocked with bottles of wine, he and I get along well in times of stress.

Sometimes I see big fucking booze trucks outside my building, delivering boxes upon boxes of beer, wine and what have you, I always wonder where those boxes are going. I see people stumbling around, giggling at nothing, asleep in chairs in the forum. Those bastards are hiding things from me…

‘This Place Will Drive You to Drink’

Am I drinking right now? Damn straight I am. I’ve been in a bad mood all day, no surprise right? I spent the whole damn day waiting on a delivery that never came; I was hitting the bottle by three, not giving a damn. Then I heard the noise, the horror… I got a woman who lives below me who has a little child that I believe is possessed by a demon. I hear the child at night, sometimes two or three in the morning, wailing, screaming, screeching, and damning all living souls to hell. I can’t sleep with this going on; the only thing that helps is a beer or a shot, or both. Once the child begins with its damnation of parental superiority I begin with the Cutty Sark and a cigarette, it’s going to be a long night for both of us.
I got a guy lives in the apartment next to me, he sings opera at all hours. One Saturday morning after a night at the pub I was awakened by the sounds of an accordion and singing, some Italian opera tune, I thought I had thick walls that could block out a sonic boom, I was wrong. The hangover kicked in quickly and it took a pint to clear it all away, opera and all. I fell out on my couch, safe for the time being. But he’s back again when I wake up, doing his Carmen, his Don Giovanni, his Magic Flute bit. Schlitz sounds better than that any day of the bloody week. And I fucking hate Schlitz.

‘This Place Will Drive You to Drink’

They say that people drink to forget, and yeah, that’s damn true. Do you want to remember the girl (or for you single ladies, the guy) who turned you down for a date that day, or the fact that we have nothing but morons in political office? Shit, we have a beer baron for a mayor, but do we have a free beer day in town? HELL NO! He’d rather jump out of airplanes and roll around on scooters, and still make the rest of us pay for pints in his bar. Do you want to keep in mind the really shitty day you had at work, where everyone was on your ass about some business that you had nothing to do with? Of course not, go to the pub after work, you’ll feel better, and you may meet some bird (or dude, for the girlies) that’ll float your boat and raise the sail for ya, and you’ll forget all about the bullshit of the day.

Young kids in pubs now days think it’s just fun to get drunk, be stupid, get into fights and talk a lot of shit, and sure maybe it is, I guess that’s what my thought process was when I was young. Now, it’s more out of survival, to try and keep my sanity while everything else around goes to hell. As I get older I’ve come to realize more and more that people in general are simply insane, in their own way for each individual of course, but insane none the less. To be able to deal with them, you need some sort of medicine. Some people go with drugs, some with religion, but we all know where that gets them. Others go with the bottle, the bar “scene” whatever that means.
I think that the young ones don’t really know the ‘This place will drive you to drink’ motto yet, they still think that everything’s cool, and drinking is only for fun and bullshitting. Yeah, sure it is, for the time being, unless they do something really foolish and have to pay the price for it, but that’s growing up. Not that those that are professional drinkers don’t fuck up, we just fess up to the fuck up a lot quicker just to get it out of the way and back to the pub before last call.

I fuck up often; I think I’m rather skilled at the “Fuckin up at the pub routine”. For instance, I’m in the pub with some friends one night and this woman I know comes over and sits with us, I’ve known her for several years and see her around from time to time. And we’re sitting and talking, ordering drink after drink, and she’s matching me, that’s something I don’t see too often but whatever…After some time my friends split and it’s just her and I, and I’m trying to throw the sweet talk out there and she’s a little receptive of it. I even show off a little short story I’d just done because I know she’s a big reader, not that I think the story is gonna get be somewhere but ya never know what could happen. So, we’re talking and next thing I know we’re making with the kissy face. Cool right? No not really. After the third or forth time kissing this girl I could hear Dave Chappell’s voice in my head: “Flynn’s FUCKIN UP!!”
Now the unwritten rule is that you don’t make out with a girl in your regular bar that you’re not exclusively dating, or fucking, or whatever the hell couples do. It screws your chances with another girl in the bar that may have had designs on you, or if there’s another girl there that you’ve had designs on but you’re just not bold enough to go and make with the sweet talk. And sure, there was booze involved and the inhibitions were washed away like a bent cigarette down a sewer drain, yadda yadda, but you can fuck yourself in this endeavor. Some gals could get the impression that you’re just some wannabe playboy, always out on the make with a slick line and no substance. (Only shallow, idiotic, hair twirling, giggly, moronic sluts go for that type of shit fellas, and most of them are carriers of something you definitely don’t want.)
So, take your make out session outside to the back alley, make it dirty and exciting, and pretend you’re in a movie. Or better yet, go to her flat or back to yours if it’s not too scummy. And that way you can show up at the pub the next night and not have to worry about that waitress who you’ve always wanted to shag giving you the stink eye if you make with the blah blah about her eyes or how she must work out because she’s on her feet all night carrying a tray of booze. Yeah, they’ve never heard that before boys, really.

Now, I didn’t make this realization about the whole making out in the pub theory until well after I got home. I’d walked the little woman to an apartment where she was crashing for the night and before she went in she reminded me that she had a boyfriend but he was out of the country. I say reminded because she’d told me this little bit of information earlier in the bar, but because of the kissy face incidents I quickly pushed that part of the story out of my head, for obvious reasons, and proceeded to make outlandish plans concerning trips to Paris and Rome, with a stop over in NY to see some friends.
So I went home, lit one of many cigarettes, poured one of several scotch and waters, and thought about how awkward things were going to be next time I strolled into the pub.

So not only will this place drive you to drink, you can drive yourself to do so as well. And as of right now, I’m empty.

So I’m gonna plant ya now, and dig ya later. There’s a bottle of gin in the fridge waiting to be poured.