The Bartender's Journal Megapost! (Part's 1-9)

Ok, I posted part's 1 & 2 here a while ago and, despite all the reading, people seemed to like them. So, here ya go. I'll post more as they become available to me.

Journal Entery 1

I woke up this morning, well not exactly the morning, it was four in the afternoon but that’s morning for a bartender, and had a wicked hangover. I fumbled around for a cigarette and lay there next to the open window by my bed and listened to the crackheads shuffle through my building’s dumpster. I had to be at work in a half hour and didn’t have time for a shower so I picked out some clothes that didn’t smell too bad. I decided to go with the shirt I got on the internet that says “POPULAR SPORTS TEAM”. Nobody at the sports bar I work at seems to get it.

On my way out to my motorcycle I saw a pamphlet stapled to a telephone pole. It had a picture of a cat and said “LOST CAT Answers to “kiss my p***y” please call 751-9698. I really wanted to laugh but couldn’t muster the strength.

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Work was dead when I got there and the only other person in sight was Katie the coctail waitress and my ex-girlfriend. If you’ve never had to work with an ex before let me spare you the suspense, it sucks. Normally after a breakup you can easily avoid the other person by staying away from their hangouts and friends. You’re totally screwed when you have to spend seven hours a day, four days a week not only seeing but talking to that person. Oh f**k. Here she comes.

“Hi, whats up?” She says with a smile. But all I hear is “I broke up with you and told all the other waitresses what you look like naked.” I need some coffee.

The coffee here sucks and I drink too much of it. I need to do something about this hangover and ponder the idea of bitters and soda, an old trick you learn in bartending school, but decide to opt for some “hair of the dog” instead and slip a couple shots of bourbon in my coffee. Just as I’m doing this I notice that I have customers at the far side of the bar. A construction worker and a cop come in from the road work being done outside and sit down together. I ask them where the Indian chief and the sailor are and they stare at me blankly and ask for menus. I don’t know why I try.

The rest of the evening shift begins to roll in. Seven months of working here and I can barely keep these chicks’ names straight. Cryatal, Katie, Karen, Kelly C, Kelly E, Cassie, and Carrie are gossiping at the server station. It doesn’t help that I’m the only guy that works here. Sure at first I felt like a kid in a candy store, but within two months of being hired, Katie had stuck a flag in me and staked her claim. Three months after that things had aparently gotten “weird” and we broke up. Now the rest of the flock is off limits. Date one girl at your work and it’s an office romance, date two or more and you’re a man w***e, it’s just that simple. I think I’d better find a paper and pretend thay’re not talking about me.

I’m too out of it to read about how the world is going to hell in a hand basket so I decide to do the crossword. Hmm… A five letter word starting with L for “One who lacks success”. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

Oh crap. Traci just walked in. Traci is an ex of mine that I’ve been dating lately. We hadn’t seen eachother in three years and ran iinto eachother at a bar a few weeks ago and have been seeing eachother since. She says she’s on her way to school and just wanted to stop in and say hi. We talk for a few minuites and when she gets ready to leave she leans over for the old goodbye kiss. I awkwardly oblige and simultainiously try and scan the bar with my eyes as I do it. When she leaves I see the hens giggling and pointing in the corner. Now I can look forward to “Who was that?” and “Was that your girlfriend?” questions for the next couple of hours. I drink more bourbon.

I have another customer. He orders a Bud and starts yammering on about some sports game. He could be speaking Aramaic for all I know. I’m able to decipher that tonight is going to be rather busy because our local hockey team is in the Super Bowl or some such thing. It’s hard working in a sports bar when you have absolutely no intrest in sports. I guess it’s gotta be like a h**o working in a titty bar, I just don’t get all the hype. Usually you can b******t your way through these conversations with customers with a lot of “yea”’s and “really”’s like you might do on a boring date but when they realize that they distracted me from my dog eared copy of The Sun Also Rises to ask about a basketball score, they realize they asked the wrong person. I swear these morons think that just because I work here that I must be Howard f*****g Kosell. Even the waitresses seem to know more than I do. I hope you never have to go through the demasculating expierience of getting the off sides rule explained to you by a eighteen year old girl applying eyeliner.

The guy at the end of the bar wants a Coors Light. He hasn’t asked yet and I don’t recognize him but I know anyway. After you’ve served a few thousand beers you can just tell by looking at them. Ocasionally you get thrown a curveball. One time I had a guy with a Bud Light running suit and baseball cap order a Heinekin, that one bent my mind for awhile.

Yep, I was right a Coors Light. Damn I’m good. I wonder if I could somehow incorporate that into some kind of drunken magic act? Hey wait. A homeless guy just walked in and sat down. He’s asking for what would obviously be his twelth shot of vodka. I don’t have anything against hobos it’s just that they’re bad for buisness. We cater to a rich c********r season ticked holder crowd that dosen’t like rubbing elbows with tramps. For that matter what the hell is this guy doing trying to buy our overpriced shit for anyway? He’d have to panhandle for months to buy a Smirnoff here. Why not save your money and drink yourself to death on Thunderbird like a normal bum. The girls notice that he’s scaring the customers and as always it’s my job to toss his a*s. As politely as possible I scoop the poor b*****d up and escort him out. Afterwards I begin to wonder who the poor b*****d really is.

Shit. Here comes Katie again, this was inevitable. “Who was that girl?” She asks.

I tell her just an old friend. f**k I’m a spineless sack of shit.

“She was really cute.” I take a deep breath and nod.

“What are you doing after work tonight?” She asks as she places her hand over mine on the bar.

I say that I’m not sure and I’ll talk to her after I get off. She agrees, gives me a wink and a smile and walks off. Then I pour some more bourbon in my coffee cup. It’s gonna be a long night.

************

The place is starting to fill up and the manager just turned off my jazz station to put the pregame on the P.A.. The reason we get so packed on game nights because we’re right across the street from the city’s sports arena. For two hours before and at least one hour after a game, this place is a madhouse but when there’s nothing going on it’s a ghost town. Despite the waitress’ b******g when its slow I kinda like it. I make a descent hourly and even when its busy most of these p****s think tipping is a city in China. The down time helps me relax. I grab a good book, throw on some jazz and put away a stiff drink. You haven’t experienced Steinbeck till you’ve read him good and tight while listening to some Brubeck. This is how I got the rep as the weird guy. I guess these broads, most of whom were cheerleaders in high school, have never met a guy who’d rather dig some Kerouac than watch a bunch of overpaid a******s in silly outfits whack a ball around. That’s what Katie said she liked about me. I guess years of these Neanderthals pinching her a*s as she tried to carry a tray of drinks drove her to something different.

Katie, the only girl to drive me to sobriety. I swear I went on a week long bizarro binder after she gave me my walking papers and let me tell you it was hell. For some reason after she left, the hooch just didn’t taste as sweet anymore. It was the longest I’d been on the wagon since I was fourteen. Slowly a healthy surliness set in and I was back off the wagon and into the gutter where I belonged.

A guy in a t-shirt and a sport coat just sat down with a woman with enough collagen in her lips to raise the Kursk. She wants a cosmo and he asks for a rusty nail with a d*****t grin. I know these guys. They buy a bartending bible and think they can impress a date my stumping the bartender with an obscure cocktail. This guy’s barking up the wrong tree. Growing up with my father, the only two liquors in the house were scotch and Drambuie, the only two ingredients in a rusty nail. If I wanted to tie one on as a shaver I had to learn to appreciate the libation. I ask the guy how he likes his rust and he goes from cocky to stumbling moron in about a tenth of a second. I explain that I’m asking how much Drambuie he wants and he says not too much. f****r wound up not tipping but damn it was worth it.

The coffee’s getting cold so I decide to switch to rum and coke in a soda cup. The trick with doing this at work is choosing a dark rum so the boss doesn’t notice the pale complexion of your beverage and tip her off that your boozing on the job. I find Myers does the trick. It’s also a good idea to keep some strong mints handy. I swear Amber, god bless her for having a name starting with an A, the manager must thing I brush my teeth five times a day.

Katie comes behind the bar to sneak herself a shot of Vodka. I swear she executes this move like an expert pickpocket. First she pours the shot under the bar, then she examines some tickets for upcoming drinks, then she drops one and in one swift move grabs the shot and downs it while going to pick up the ticket. Now that’s a girl you bring home to mom. On her way out to the floor she runs her hand across the small of my back, a move that two months ago was a signal for a quickie in the beer fridge. I almost drop two pilsners of Guinness as she does this and make the save just in time to see her shoot me a wink on her way out. I can tell that this encounter wasn’t an invitation to please her up against a case of Corona but rather a display of intent. Kind of like a peacock displaying her feathers just to let the poor male peacock know the score.

My cell phone is ringing and it’s Traci. I hope God is enjoying this. I duck into the broom closet where it’s quiet enough to talk. She wants to know what time I’ll be off. I tell her, knowing damn well that I’ll be off as soon as the game starts and the bar clears out, that I may have to close and that I’ll call her later. There is a special place in hell for idiots like myself.

I can see some dirt bag trying to hit on Katie at one of the cocktail tables. She’s got blowing these guys off down to a science. Just as the b*****d crosses the customer-drunken guy hitting on you line she’ll either spill a drink in his lap or if she’s dying for a tip tell them she’s a l*****n which typically results in a bigger tip.

It’s a half hour till they drop the black thing on the ice and the customers are antsy to buy drinks for less than eight bucks before they get to the game. I actually went to a hockey game once when a scalper that frequents the place gave me ice tickets. The experience was fun enough but when I ordered two Coors’ and the beer peddler told me fifteen bucks, I knew I couldn’t make a hobby out of being a sports fan.

Drunk guy in the jersey wants to buy me a shot. Apparently because I’m the man. Drinking recreationally on the job is a no no but if a customer is buying it’s encouraged. Strange how that works. He asks me what I want and I tell him we’re doing a round of Jacobs Ladders.

Jacobs Ladder

Pint glass half full of lager
Shot glass with
¼ Bacardi 151
¼ Mellonball
¼ Bacardi Cranberry
¼ Triple Sec
Splash of Pineapple
Drop shot in pint and drink

Let me tell you, this shit is like Ambrosia. Jersey guy puts his down and within two minutes I see him make a b-line for the bathroom, mission accomplished.

The bar is starting to clear out. Tabs are settled and barstools empty as the morons pile out to watch a bunch of figure skaters with mullets try and convince America that Canada has something to offer the civilized world. I settle the last of my tabs and tally up my tips. 125.67, I might not have to hit the ATM at the bar tonight.

Just as I’m making sure the bar is nice and tidy for the closing girl I get another ring on my cell phone. Of course it’s Traci. She wants to know the score because she’s got a line on a good jazz club tonight. Just as I’m trying to think of a good way to blow her off Katie comes over and wants my ear. She asks if I want to grab some drinks downtown because she’s getting off the same time as me. I ask for a sec and duck back into the broom closet and ask Traci if she wants to grab some dinner. She says that she’d rather skip the dining and get straight to the wineing and go back to her place and s***w. Phone in hand I pontificate on this dilemma for a couple of moments and tell Katie I have plans and I’ll see her tomorrow at work. I then tell Traci that I’ll meet her at one of my favorite hangouts in forty five minutes.

Did I make the right choice? Only time will tell. All I know is that I’m gonna get lit with a beautiful girl who’d rather get tight and f**k than go through the romantic rigamoround. Katie says for me to call her this weekend. All I can think is that the shortest distance between me and happiness is a stiff Jack and Coke.

Journal Entery 2

It’s Friday morning and I haven’t heard from Traci in days. I have a rule of never leaving more than one unreturned message to a girl, it just looks f*****g desperate. I’d just gotten out of class and had a few hours to kill before work. I decided I needed to tie one on before I went in, it was the only logical thing to do. I gave my buddy Chris a call to see if he wanted to get some afternoon delight. He told me that he’d gotten a little too sloshed the night before and broken his arm after falling out of a three story window and was quitting drinking for a while. Then I told him I was buying.

We met at a little downtown bar that has a patio and served Coronas in the big 22oz bottles that make you wish they served them in paper bags. The place’s other saving grace was that is was great for watching the women walking by in the beautiful spring weather. Chris is the perfect guy to do this with. His only real passions in life are women and chess, in that order. The ladies consume every part of his being. This works out well for him as he is blessed with being both attractive and charming, two qualities that are few and far between in our boozer circles. The guy seems to score chicks more often than I fill my gas tank. Just as he was relaying the sorid details of this seventeen year old bird he’d sealed the deal with shortly before his fall from the heavens, I began laughing hysterically. You see I spotted this twelve year old retard girl walking with her parents wearing a t-shirt that said “I hate stupid people” in glittery letters. This had truly made my day. I pointed this out to Chris and we both spent the next few minutes having a good laugh. A truly inspired moment like this called for a shot so we got a couple of tequilas and toasted retard girl’s health.


My buzz was good and it was time for work so I bid Chris goodbye and set off. There was no event at the arena tonight so things were gonna drag on like a one legged dog. Much to my chagrin, Katie was working tonight and I was in no mood to deal with that. Luckily she was working the downstairs bar tonight so It looked as if I’d be able to remain somewhat sane as long as I didn’t catch her too many times in my peripheral vision. I made my way to the bathroom and noticed in the mirror that my usually dark complexion had taken on a certain pallor, one of the many negative side effects of a life of alcoholism. I needed my vitamins which meant a nice stiff Dr. Love, a cocktail I invented for my final at bartending college.

Dr. Love

1 oz. Tequila
1 oz. Coconut Rum
1 oz. Vodka
1 oz. Blue Curacao
1 oz. Mellonball
Shake with pineapple and orange juice and serve on ice

This concoction has both vitamins and enough hooch to kill a rhinoceros. Normally I have to hide my booze in my coffee cup but today we’re slow and the manager will be cooped up in the office all night doing god knows what. Drink in hand I retired to my stool behind the bar and dove into some Somerset Maugham.

It wasn’t long before I had a customer but thankfully it was Mark. Mark was a regular who stopped in every day after work. He owns a bunch of Vespa dealerships around town and despite being filthy rich is a real stand up cat. On his way in I noticed him limping and I asked him what the score was as he delicately deposited himself in his stool. He explained that he was taking his brand new scooter for a ride downtown yesterday when some trust fund Philistine in a Viper pulled out in front of him going the wrong way down the street. Mark couldn’t stop in time and wound up clipping the guy’s fender and got trapped under what was left of his ride. The dickless b*****d tore off with one of my best tippers broken and bleeding in the street. He showed me the road rash on his legs and I was to say the least impressed. I may be a motorcycle guy but I have respect for any man who gets his shit ground into hamburger on two wheels. I made Mark’s first round on the house and told him to keep on truckin’.

Damn. It’s only five o’clock but thank god I have my jazz. One of the best perks of being the bartender on shift on a slow night is that you get to pick the music. I ignore the occasional “what the hell is this shit?” remark from the waitresses on duty. If those wenches had their way we’d be listening to N-Sync or some hip-hop nonsense. If the lord Jesus Christ himself asked me to play some Sharika while I was getting paid to sit on my tuckus, I’d tell him where to shove the sins of the world.

I see Dan, one of the area panhandlers, poke his head through the door to see if I’m working. He’s looking for me because I always give him a free cup of coffee when he comes in. A few months ago he was desperately in need of some Java after being mugged and tried to pay me in pennies and bus tokens but I told him it was on the house. Since then he’d come in most days I worked and we’d go through the same ritual of him trying to pay and me refusing his money. It’s an unspoken arrangement we have and he never tries to take advantage of the deal. The reason I do this is because he’s not a drunk. Not that I have anything against drunks, hell, I’m a drunk. It’s just that I work hard to support my drinking habit and I detest anyone who can get away with being a lush without busting their humps. Leading this lifestyle of degradation is a privilege not a right. The only hobo’s I pander to are those that are either talented or funny. Playing the guitar or sax, you get a buck. Have a funny sign like “Running for president need campaign funds” or “Will kidnap mother in law for $” you get two. Dan’s just a guy down on his luck who isn’t too proud to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get by.

The manager comes in and tells me I can close at seven. Halleluiah. This leaves me little time to do all my closing work and get out at 7:01 like I want but I’m able to dash around the place at lightning speed, leaving a trail of fire in my wake and lock the doors right at the buzzer. Just as I’m mounting my steed in the parking lot, you guessed it, Katie walks up. She wants to know if I’d like to get some dinner. The next 1.5 seconds go by like agonizing months before I finally say yes. We decide on a nearby cantina that has a not too strict two drink limit on Margaritas that could power a Saturn 5 rocket.

At the restaurant the mood is awkward until we polish off our first drink. We haven’t had a conversation deeper than “Hi.” or “How’s it goin?” in months. But as soon as the Cuervo starts to dominate the conversation we go on just like we did when we were together. It felt great to be talking to her again and about an hour into our conversation I was once again in for some trouble. Christ on a cracker, two months of getting over her down the drain. After a couple of hours she tells me she needs to be going as she needs to get up early in the morning. I walk her to her car and was about half way through telling her what a great time I’d had when she did it. The Jezebel kissed me. Not the cordial goodbye peck on the cheek but a full blown bent over the hood of her car make out session. A few moments that could have lasted forever later, she tells me we should go out on Saturday and leaves. And there I was standing alone in that parking lot feeling like the last soul on earth.

What the f**k just happened? What’s gonna happen on Saturday? Was that a fluke or does she really want to get back together? Did I lock the beer cooler? I swear that broad can f**k with my head like no other. I almost miss when she was just another pretty face. Those were the days, back when I didn’t know what I was missing. This is why I’ll never smoke crack. I know it’ll be too good to be true and I’ll want more. Katie’s like crack that way.

Why the f**k can’t I meet a normal girl? My theory is that by the time they’ve reached my age that they’re all batshit nuts. Between having a kid at seventeen, being molested by their fathers, or getting addicted to meth, they’ve all lost their marbles by twenty five. In twenty years the planet will be populated with menopausal versions of them and they will leave the face of our world looking like some post apocalyptic nightmare.

All I know is that I have tomorrow off and a case of PBR’s in my fridge with my name on it. It’s time to get down to business and really drink. I’ll figure this shit out tomorrow.

4:30am and my phone is ringing. I find myself fully dressed half laying across the couch with an empty beer bottle in my hand. I fumble around for my phone and find it in my pants. Not in my pocket but in my pants. I fish it out and answer. The Captain, my father, is in the hospital and it’s bad.

Journal Entery 3

Still drunk, I don my leathers and ride down to the hospital. It turns out that The Captain had a bedsore that got infected and spread to the bone. The stubborn SOB didn’t think to go to the doctor until it leaked so much blood that his blood pressure got dangerously low.

Now there’s a few things you should know about The Captain. First, he’s about the toughest b*****d on the planet. We call him The Captain because that was his rank in the Air Force. He graduated from the Academy first in his class and later went on to serve as an attack pilot in Vietnam. His job was a Forward Air Controller or FAC. Not many people know this but FAC’s had the highest casualty rate of any job in Vietnam. Worse than radio man or tunnel rat. The reason for this was that their job was basically to get shot at. They flew these planes called OV-10’s, the predecessor to the A-10 Warthog, low over enemy territory and tried to get antiaircraft emplacements to fire on them. The pilot would strafe the target with rocket and minigun fire while the BIB or b***h In Back targeted them with a laser guided bomb. Doing this usually allowed the enemy to attain missile lock, hence why so many of them got blown out of the sky.

Growing up my dad would put me to bed with stories of the war. My favorites were the ones involving a guy named Crazy John. Crazy John was one of the pilots in The Captains squadron who regularly earned his namesake. One story involved the night of the Tet cease fire. The NVA broke the truce by launching a multi front blitz on the American line. The Captain and his buddies were drinking in a bar they had built on base when Crazy John decided to go for a walk in the jungle. So he leaves, p**s drunk, wearing nothing more than boxer shorts, combat boots, a bandolier of magazines, and carrying an AK-47 he bought on the black market. On his nature walk he decides to take a p**s and half way through relieving himself realizes he’s p*****g on the head of a VC scout. He then drops one weapon for another and fills the poor p**s soaked gouk full of holes. He then notices black clad figures on the tree line. Running back, in his undies mind you, Crazy John fires wildly into the air while screaming “We’re under attack!”. About this time the perimeter alarm goes off and The Captain and the rest of his squadron suit up to get briefed by the Colonel. Colonel Clean, as he’s called due to his resemblance to Mr. Clean, tells them that they need to get their planes in the air because the VC’s are firing RPG’s at them but first, they need to do something about Crazy John. He’s apparently on top of a bunker firing wildly into the air and has already hit one friendly helicopter. The Captain’s squadron is just in time to drag his a*s to his plane so they can all take off before the VCs overrun the base.

Another one I like takes place earlier in the war when The Captain was attached to the CIA’s Air America program in a commando unit. You may have seen the Mel Gibson movie, it was horseshit. The Captain and Crazy John had just been stationed at a small base in Korea where they could patrol the DMZ. The first briefing the Pilots had was from the base General who explained that the neighboring village’s main infrastructure was from a banana plantation next to the airfield. He said that under no circumstances were they to mess with those bananas. That night, The Captain and Crazy John were getting lit on Afterburners.

Afterburner

Brandy Snifter
Fill with Bacardi 151
Ignite
Drink while afire


The two of them were going off about the General when one or the other of them said “f**k the General, and f**k those bananas.” Later that night they snuck back on base and headed over to the General’s quarters and stole his personal jeep. This alone is an offense that could land them a court marshal but what they did next was pure brilliance. They drove to the plantation and mowed down every god damned banana tree there. They then returned the jeep full of empty liquor bottles and half a banana tree in the grill. An investigation was launched but the culprits of what became known as “The Great Banana Massacre” were never found.

After the war, The Captain went back to the world and became a fighter pilot instructor on a base near Laredo Texas. He told me countless stories of having to pull the stick from some white knuckled rookie but my favorite tale from this period involves a crooked Sheriff from a small town between Laredo and the base. All pilots drive flash cars and they stuck out like a sore thumb to the law out in the Texas countryside. If the Sheriff caught one of them going even one mile over the speed limit, he’d impound their car and make them spend the night in jail. The Captain avoided this fate for months but one afternoon while on his way to see a girl he was dating, he got nabbed and thrown in the slammer. When he was released and got his cherry Jaguar XK-E out of impound he found a broken tail light and a the hood keyed. This was the last straw.

The next morning the townsfolk heard a strange sound coming from the east. The sound got louder and to their horror they saw a T-38 supersonic jetfighter flying at rooftop level break the sound barrier on the main drag. The ensuing sonic boom broke all the glass on main street. The Mayor demanded the culprit be brought to justice so The Captain and four other pilots that were in the air during the incident were brought to the base commander. He explained to them that he told the Mayor that they couldn’t be sure who was flying and as a result, unless someone came forward, he couldn’t reprimand them all. He also said that he told the Mayor that he’d be on time paying for the speeding ticket he’d gotten a few weeks earlier.

A few years later, The Captain was a B-52 pilot in charge of a tactical nuclear bomber wing. It was then that one of his secretaries caught his eye. A beautiful young Mexican girl straight out of high school. Within months my mom had a ring on her finger and along came I. We spent my childhood running across America to the dozens of airbases that scatter the country. When I was about seven The Captain developed an unexplained limp and was unable to fly. He retired and took up a career as a programmer. A few years later his condition worsened and he was stricken to a wheelchair while my mom ran off and married my babysitter, a man eighteen years her junior. We spent the next few years taking care of each other in a living situation that was more like roommates than father and son.

Due to his still unexplained condition, trips to the hospital were frequent but it was on Christmas eve my first year of college that I got a horrifying call. The Captain had gone to the hospital to complain about indigestion and found out he’d had six heart attacks in the matter of an hour. Talk about a tough b*****d. They had to remove what was left of his heart and replace it with some Geiger inspired pump that pulsated from his chest. Looking at him in this condition was horrifying. The summer before I’d worked for a morgue picking up bodies and saw a guy who’d ate the end of a shotgun and a fifteen year old girl whose head was crushed by an eighteen wheeler but this was the first time such a sight made me physically ill. He spent six months waiting for a heart transplant, during which time the doctors told me not to hold out much hope and to get our affairs in order. That summer a nineteen year old kid was killed in a drunk driving accident and twenty four hours later The Captain was on his way to recovery.

Tonight is the first time I’ve gotten a call from the hospital since that Christmas eve. As it turns out he’ll only have to spend about a week in the hospital with about two months outpatient care after that. When I got there we shot the shit and exchanged old stories. I asked him what he thought about the rape scandals at the Academy and he said “I think it’s awful. When I was there we had to go off base for our rapes.” Damn I love this man.

After running some errands for him, I told The Captain that I had to get a haircut and buy some new clothes, Katie and I are going out tonight. The Captain told me not to forget to check my six.

Journal Entery 4

I really hate the f*****g mall. After an enjoyable time at the barber shop it was time or the arduous task of buying clothes. Let me tell you, the last time I went clothes shopping there was a democrat in the white house. The reason for this is that I dress rather plainly. A typical outfit for me consists of a pair of jeans, a black ort white t-shirt, and a motorcycle jacket and boots. I find this to be a timeless set of attire as I prophesize that when we eventually populate the moon that you’ll see similarly dressed men in a bar drinking their moonbeers.

The worst thing about having to go to the department store is the sales vultures lurking in every corner. Between them and the perfume snipers at the entrance, you’re ready to eviscerate the next fake smile clad fuckstick you se on the 3.5 mile journey to the men’s section.

Browsing the designer men’s department, I’m pressed to find that wouldn’t make me look like an extra from a Volkswagen commercial. I finally decide on a gray DKNY shirt and some DKNY jeans. The same thing I typically wear just more expensive. I go to the register and a woman with a nametag asks if she can help me. I tell her I’d like to buy these and she says “Oh I’m sorry, I don’t work here.” I almost slap her. I get to the only other register in sight and some strollerjockey is applying for a goddamned store credit card. Almost twenty minutes later I get run up and can’t help thinking of all the booze I could have bought with that hundred bucks.

Tonight is going to be wild. Our hockey team has a playoff game which means a sold out arena and hundreds of hockey nazis needing drinks. By the time I get there the employees are hunkering down like their expecting a Hun invasion. It was then that I saw her, the new girl Jessica. She had eyes that made me forget she had breasts. Lips so perfect that I wanted to rip them off her face, shove them in my pocket, and run out the door. Damn you God. Damn you to H E double hockey sticks hell. How the hell am I supposed to get up every morning, eat my cornflakes, go to work, get drunk, or do anything anymore knowing I’ll never have sex with her in a kazillion years. I couldn’t score with this chick with a box van and a bottle of chloroform.

A couple of Chinese guys pull up to the bar. Now listen, I don’t have anything against Orientals or Slope-Americans or whatever you’re supposed to call them these days. Hell, they make great women and motorcycles. Not to mention they have tiny tallywhackers which makes their women turn to greener pastures and as a result of inadequacy their motorcycles are shit hot fast. What bugs me is that the only thing more annoying than being a customer when the help doesn’t speak English is when you’re the help and the customer doesn’t speak English. The one who speaks the more English of the two, asks for what sounds like permission to “s***w Pam Anderson”. I tell him to go for it and to give her a rogering for me while he’s at it. He repeats himself several times and a game of charades ensues until I decipher his gesticulating to mean he wants two Sam Adams’. Another thing I hate about these foreign fucknuts is that they don’t tip. Europeans are the worst. Many of you may not know this but America is one of the few countries where tipping is the custom. You see in most places they don’t pay the service industry the slave wages they do here and as a result they can make a living no matter how dead the establishment or how stingy the customer.

Speaking of tips, I’m in dire need of some. In all my running around this afternoon I didn’t make it to the bank to cash my paycheck. You see I don’t have an ATM or a credit card. I literally keep my entire life savings in my sock drawer with a loaded pistol. Right about now this figure amounts to about $11.50, not nearly enough to take a lady out on the town. I detest when I get desperate like this because I end up turning into the field negro for my customers monetary drippings. “Yessuh, I’s be getsin yo rumn’ coke righ quickly suh. Oh sorry suh! I shouldsa been knowin yous wantin the Bacardi even thows you didzn’t ask fuh it. I shows am sorry suh.”

My next customer is some middle aged Yentl wearing enough jewelry to make Mr. T pity hisself. She orders a cosmo and leans over the bar taking me step by step through the arduous process.

Cosmopolitan

½ oz Cointreau
1 oz Vodka
1 oz Lime Juice
Splash Cranberry Juice
Mix and toss in Sarah Jessica Parker wannabe’s face.

Obviously this waste of a reproductive system knows my job better than I do. I mean cmon, I don’t go to where she works and tell her how to suck a d**k. That rock on her finger is proof positive that she’s got it down to a science.

About this time the place is filling up and the inevitable mental pain begins to set in. My next customer is a lost and disheveled looking young man wearing a Lou Reed shirt. I like him already. Still standing he rests against the bar and orders a shot of Cuervo. This guy is obviously in at least as much pain as I am so I pour two shots, raise my glass, and tell him cheers, this ones on me. He left a fiver on the bar and gave me the thumbs up on his way out.

The next guy to pull up had obviously had a few already and, clad in his Hugo Boss suit, orders a Grey Goose and tonic. I make the drink and slide it down the bar and ask if he wants to start a tab. d*****t slides it back, hitting an astray and knocks the drink over and says “This time put some liquor in it.” I retrieve another glass and this time pour the thing two thirds full of Vodka and add just a splash of tonic. I bring it back over to where he’s sitting, drink the entire thing in one gulp and say “If you want your salad tossed go to Chilly’s, get the f**k out of my bar.” He tells me he wants to see the manager. I tell him I am the manager. Carrie is cocktailing at a table nearby and hears the exchange and butts in to ask me something. “Hey do you think I could get off a little early tonight? I have a test tomorrow.” I reply “No goddamnit. That’s the third time this week.” I then cross my arms and look back at the Ben Affleck stand in. He leaves his seat and makes a b-line for the door. Carrie and I have an arrangement where if someone wants to speak to a manager she get s me and if someone questions my claim to be the manager she backs me up. It’s yet to backfire.

The next pair I get at the bar is a couple of lesbians, one pregnant, making kissy face and holding hands. Now these weren’t you run of the mill bull dykes that look like Jared from the subway commercials. These were the kind of carpet munchers you might see on Skinamax or Swank. Seeing these homettes fondle each other brought back a painful memory. The time Katie and I had a threesome with one of the new waitresses. Why painful you might ask? Let me explain. We were out after work having drinks when Katie started joking around about a threesome. I’ve had girlfriends do this before and didn’t pay it much mind until the two of them started making out at t he bar. This would have been the part in the movie where I turn to the camera, raise an eyebrow, and crack a smile. They stop long enough for Katie to say we should get a drink at my place. They spend the entire car ride home in the back seat tearing into each other like a couple of wild hyenas. When we get to my place Katie drags us by the belts to my room where for the next four hours I look directly into the face of god. The bad part began after they had both left and I, unable to sleep, went to my favorite coffee shop to reminisce. At about my third sip of coffee I came to a horrifying realization. The fact was that as of this moment, my entire life was all downhill. Nothing would top last night. Sure my wedding day and seeing my first child born may come close but nothing will top shagging those two. Nothing. I make the lesbians next round on the house. God bless their muff huffing hearts.

A young guy sits down and addresses me by name and starts talking like we’re old pals. I have no clue who he is. He starts telling me about some problems he and his girlfriends are having. Slammed with drink orders I get in the occasional “No shit” or “Damn that sucks” as I pass by. The game is about to start and the place starts clearing out. When I have enough time I make it over to friendly guy and let him vent. He asks me how I’ve been doing and I tell him just peachy. I have neither the time nor inclination to explain myself to him. He says how cool my job must be and asks how I got it. I tell him a prison work release program. He asks what I was in for and I tell him I’m not exactly sure because I black out when I drink but the cops said that the other guy may never walk again. I then peek over each shoulder and pour myself a Jack Daniels and say “Hell of a thing huh?” and slam it.

Before long I’m able to count my drawer and go downstairs to have a drink with Katie. We have a couple of drinks and make small talk for awhile and eventually I ask where she wants to go and she says we need to talk. We grab a table in the back and she says that the other night was a mistake and that she’s sorry. She asks if she sent me any mixed signals about the situation and I almost burst into a mixture of crying and laughter. She gets up and kisses me and asks if I still want to get a drink. I tell her I have something I need to do, grab my shit and get on my bike. I blaze out of the parking lot, get on the highway and head east. I don’t know where I’m going but I know I’m going there really f*****g fast.

EDIT: For the post above this. What makes these good reading is the way he writes. You're not supposto chop it, 'cause then it just makes for a typical story. Yes, he's a bar tender. This is how his life works. *twirls his finger*. Read and enjoy... lazy!


Journal Entery 5

Everything looks different at two hundred miles per hour. It’s as if the problems of the world are standing still and you alone speed by unscathed. Just don’t stop. Not for any reason you dumb b*****d. I’m passing cars going over a hundred like they’re standing still. I can only Imagine what that must look like to the driver. I also contemplate if any cops have radared me going so insanely fast. I wonder if they’d even bother to make chase or just chalk it up to a low flying plane. As much as weaving through the traffic at nearly one third the speed of sound is relieving my nerves, my other emotional inhibitor, alcohol takes precedence. From the highway I can see a glistening neon sign past the next exit glowing like an oasis. “LIQUORS” in blue letters. I pull off and go in and buy a bottle of Blue Label. I’ve never had the economic huevos to buy this libation before but for some reason tonight seems like a special occasion. Much to the surprise of the other people in the parking lot I toss the glossy packaging of my bottle and take a hefty swig before putting it in my bag and getting back on the highway. Once under way I notice that I’m nearing the airport and divert north for a tradition I haven’t practiced since high school.

I get to a service road south of the airfield and am happily surprised to find it has been paved since I was last here. I only have to go about a half mile until I reach my destination, the southwest perimeter of the landing strip. I dismount and pick a nice spot in the weeds for Johnny Walker and I and watch the planes land. Back when I was a teenager this was one of my favorite spots to clear my head. Being alone in this colder than a witches tit prairie watching the flying machines land somehow reminds me of a happier time in my childhood on the airbases doing the same. I remember people complaining at some of the bases about the noise of the planes all night and day. For quite a while after The Captain retired and we trekked to suburbia, I dreaded the silence.

I’ve got a call. It’s my friend Will, strangely enough the last guy I was here with many moons ago. He says he’s at a concert and that I should come. Despite being nearly twenty miles and a good buzz away, the idea sounds fabulous. I really could use the company about now. So I bid goodbye to the airfield and get back on the road. The trip takes me just under ten minutes and before the ink from the stamp on my hand is dry I have taken a mush needed p**s and gotten my first drink. Will is one of a horrifying multitude of my friends who have gotten married as of late. There was a day, not long ago, when we had a crew that could go toe to toe with the Rat Pack and the Merry Pranksters in the same night. Times have changed. First went Kung Fu Dan, who was at the time one of the crazier of the bunch, to a harlot of unspeakable evil. The rest slowly fell suit and now there are a daring few who can still howl at the moon on a Monday night. I decide that Will needs to cut loose a little and buy two shots of tequila and a beer for myself. When I bring him his little present he refuses the shot and points over his shoulder to the wife. I tell him to f**k that noise and ask him to hold my beer. I then do both shots and take my beer back. “Cheers mamma’s boy.” That’s the last thing I remember.

I wake up surprisingly in my own bed and fully clothed. I get up to have a cigarette and notice that my chest is itching. I pull up my shirt to find my chest neatly shaved. This is to say the least, disturbing. I reach for my phone to call Will and ask him how I got home and find that it’s not in my pocket and replaced with a bandanna, something of which I do not own. I go over the possibility of weather I had had gay biker sex during my blackout but find that my anus is intact and pass it off as a mystery that is yet to be solved. I hobble into the living room to find my roommate and some stranger naked beneath a blanket on the couch. My roommate is a retired soap opera actress who got tired of the Hollywood scene and moved back home to Denver. We were buddies back in high school and after meeting her in a bar after not having seen her in years, I offered her my spare bedroom when she said she needed a place to stay. It was the mother of all mistakes. I essentially got my self into a situation of having a live in girlfriend I can’t nail. She’s a reformed meth addict and holds a Gestapoesque policy of cleanliness in the household as an old tweaker habit. If the pillows on the couch go without fluffing or an ashtray is left with a butt in it, the place becomes a pigsty. I’ve contemplated throwing her out on her a*s but as it is well documented, I am not good at dealing with women. God damn I could use some coffee.

I go outside and, to my surprise, find my motorcycle parked on the sidewalk in front of my building. At least I didn’t try to make it up the stairs. I can only imagine how I drove the monster home in my condition. I mount the only lady in the world yet to let me down and set off for my favorite coffee shop. I get a few blocks into downtown and am stopped at an intersection to find that I got second billing to a f*****g parade of all things. I haven't been up this early on a Saturday in years, and for all I know there’s a parade every Saturday morning. I ask a cop who’s directing traffic what the deal is and she tells me that it’s the Cinco De Mayo celebration. I inform her that it’s April and it falls on deaf ears. Among the parade goers are people in traditional Mexican dress, flamenco bands, low riders and such. I’m beginning to become irritated when I see a group of Mexicans on motorcycles in the parade with jackets saying “Denver Chicano Motorcycle Club”. I pull my bike into the parade much to the cop’s chagrin and yell to her “I just joined.” My new buddies welcomed me with open arms and the cop, who still had to redirect traffic, was powerless to stop me. The parade wound through downtown and finally stopped at city park where a Cinco de mayo celebration was already underway. I parked with the rest of the riders and decided to cast off coffee for more powerful spirits.

The first liquor confectionary I can find is a tent selling of all things Thunderbird in plastic flasks.

Thunderbird “The American Classic”

Ferment rat feces and hot trash for a month, place in a 1.75 bottle and break over head of heroin addict.

The history of Thunderbird is as interesting as the drunken effects that one experiences from the wine. When Prohibition ended, Ernest Gallo and his brothers wanted to corner the ghetto wine market. Earnest wanted the company to become "the Campbell Soup company of the wine industry" so he started selling Thunderbird in the ghettos around the country. Their radio adds featured a song that sang, "What's the word? / Thunderbird / How's it sold? / Good and cold / What's the jive? / Bird's alive / What's the price? / Thirty twice." It is said that Ernest once drove through a tough, inner city neighborhood and pulled over when he saw a bum. When Gallo rolled down his window and called out, "What's the word?" the immediate answer from the bum was, "Thunderbird." I find this gesture of vending demeaning to my people but at the same time cannot pass up the opportunity to drink like a tramp in the park before noon.

Hooch in hand I go to mingle with my fellow Chicanos. I’ve always felt a strange gap between myself and other people of Hispanic descent. The Captain is Polish and my mother is Mexican, yea I know, I’ve heard em all, stolen submarine with a screen door, bla bla bla. I grew up in white neighborhoods and was just that one kid who didn’t get sunburnt. I speak little Spanish and know almost nothing about my lineage despite the fact that my mothers side of the family all got here illegibly. The strange thing is that when white people see me they see a tan white person and when Mexican people see me they see a Mexican. This becomes confusing when Mexican people come up to me speaking Spanish and find that I have a gringo accent and pronounce everything wrong. In fact, they tend to get offended at the idea that I’m an American and my first and only fluent language is English. Oh well, those taco benders can go to hell.

After a few drinks and several dollars I realize that I need to be at work. Tonight has no event scheduled so it’s gonna be long and boring. Luckily I have a new book and a nearly full bottle of Blue Label in my bag to get me by. When I get there I find a camera crew setting up. I only expected this on the eventual day I entered this place with an assault rifle to settle my differences with management. I ask around and it seems that we’re filming a commercial for the bar and they want me to take part. It seems I’m to be an extra in the commercial and have to sit at the bar and drink and look like I’m having a good time. It’s evident that my career as an actor will not be demanding. So I prop myself up against the unfamiliar other side of the bar and wish to god that I was wearing something other than a black sweater. A somethingawful.com or my POPULAR SPORTS TEAM jersey, anything that could be construed as a middle finger to the man would do. The funny thing is that they decided to film this on an extremely dead afternoon and the place is gonna look like a f*****g tomb. Because of this we have to all pose in different parts of the bar, adding to the illusion that the place is popular. I was filmed working as a bartender, buying a drink from another bartender, sitting at a cocktail table, and having dinner with a mixture of patrons and employees. We get the filming done just as I get off and I find out that one of the girls, Kristen, is having a going away party tonight so I, having nothing else to do, decide to join the celebration. I pick a table after clocking out and am joined by Carrie and Cassie, the girl Katie and I had the three way with. We shoot the breeze for a while but all I can think of is that I know what Cassie’s panties taste like. Despite how awkward this situation is for me, we make conversation and have a few drinks and before long I get a call from Aimee, oh wait, I haven’t told you about Aimee, that’s another story altogether.

Last edited by Xarpolis on 07/17/04 - 11:03; edited 1 time in total

Journal Entery 6

She was out of my league but I guess I was just too damn surly to give a shit. After a quick check of my breath, I moved in for the kill and there I was sitting next to her. She gave me a once over and smiled. A smile that could melt an iceberg. I needed to come up with a good way to initiate conversation and boy do I suck at that. I hadn’t thought this thing through and now I was stuck. Stuck sitting in this dingy tavern staring at the wall next to this breathtaking creature.

Then it happened, she spoke. “There’s a lot of people here for a Tuesday.” I was off the hook. Now I just had to come up with something interesting and funny to say. “Yea.” Shit. Neither interesting nor funny. I went with an old joke that was yet to fail.

“So Jesus and Saint Peter. Wait. No. O.K. God and Saint Peter are sitting up in heaven talking. So God says. “ “You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve taken a vacation.”” Saint Peter thinks about it and says. ““Yea, at least a few thousand years or so. So where ya wanna go?”” God Thinks about it for a few seconds and says. ““I dunno. Got any suggestions?”” Well Saint Peter thinks about it a bit and says. ““How about Pluto? You could relax, take in some skiing.”” ““No no no.”” God says. ““Too cold.”” Saint Peter thinks about it some more and says. ““How about Mars? You could go rock climbing, take in a show.”” ““Nah, I don’t think so.”” God says. Now this time Saint Peter thinks long and hard and finally says. ““Hey, how about Earth? You haven’t been there in ages.”” ““Not a chance.”” God says. ““Last time I went there I knocked up this Jewish b***h and started all kinds of trouble.”” The joke was well received and we got the small talk going and I was on easy street. We bounced off conversation topics like a pinball off the bumpers. I asked he what she did and she told me she was a dancer. No not ballet. Yea, that kind of dancer. But who am I to judge, it’s not like I’m a neurosurgeon or anything.

She finally asked me if I wanted to play pool, now I was in. To say that I can play pool is like saying Mozart could play the piano. We wound up playing doubles against a couple of drunken meatheads. And let me tell you these guys were on her like white on rice. I felt like Odysseus fending off the suitors. While I was shooting I had to break into their conversations with stupid questions like what color we were or what shot she thought I should take. I had to keep her interest so I could show off a little at the table. I usually don’t go for the fancy shit and stick to concentrating on my cue ball placement but I was in a unique position to impress her. I made sure to make every shot look simply magical. Banks, jumps, masses, I did it all and it soon became obvious to my opponents that I was f*****g with them. But f**k them, I’m showing off and beating their asses in the process. All my flair resulted in a few close calls but in the end we wound up beating them four games in a row and I wound up looking like a rock star.

Unbeknownst to me she’d ordered us a celebratory shot while I was sinking the eight on the last game. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, I mean I drink like an Irish sailor on furlough, the thing was that she ordered Tuaca. Tuaca is my Kryptonite. The last time I drank Tuaca I was with a big group of black guys I’d met at a jazz bar in Oakland. For some reason they found me hilarious and I became their new best friend. They bought me round after revolting round until I wound up in an alley for an hour trying not to puke on my shoes. But I had to persevere. I grabbed the amber swill and put it away without so much as a wince. I had slain the beast that had once wronged me in the past. Just then she got a phone call. This was good since it allowed me a few moments to get my composure. As it turned out it wasn’t necessary. She had to go meet some friends at a club. Before I could muster up a good way to ask, she offered me her number and wrote it on one of my business cards.

She gave me a kiss on the cheek and left. I sat there for a while nursing my drink and stared at the card. Aimee with a heart over the I and her number.

One Week Later

It was one of those beautiful Colorado winter afternoons. T-shirt weather for the brave at heart. I had woken up another night on my friend Chris’ couch. The good couch this time, not the short one that makes my back hurt all day long after a night of unconsciousness. I peel myself off the couch and decide to get lunch and some drinks at my neighborhood bar. Donning my sunglasses I bravely venture out into the unknown.

I get to the Park Tavern and order a hefty meal in hopes that it will subdue the constant abuse that my body had endured since the beginning of the massive bender that ensued shortly after Katie and I’s breakup. I also ordered a beer and a shot to resume said bender.

Going on a bender is a delicate procedure. You will not truly be on one unless you begin drinking shortly after waking in your own filth. Showering, shaving, pulling the broken glass out of your heel, all these things play second fiddle to that first drink. This requires a great amount of tenacity. To be good and sloshed during nearly every hour of your daily routine can be trying to say the least. You need to develop a good schedule to ensure you’re not passed out by 1:00pm each day. Get a good buzz on in the morning. You can now take it easy until you either start to sober up or become tired. For this eventual situation, caffeine is your best friend. A Jager and Red Bull does wonders, as does an Irish Coffee or something I concocted just for such an occasion, the Espresso Martini.

Espresso Martini

1oz Espresso
1oz Vodka
1oz Kahlua
1oz Baileys
Shake with ice and pour

Next is the inevitable evening part of your day. It’s important at this stage to not go full tilt at six o’clock. You’ll wind up shitfaced and half-dead by nine. –THE PRESENT- The bartender at the place I’m writing this at just said over my shoulder that she’s going to the men’s bathroom and throws me a wink on the way. I contemplate the meaning of this. It could either mean that the women’s’ room is full and she’s warning me not to take a p**s while she’s there or it could mean that she wants me to nail the bejesus out of her in the stall on her break. I decide that she’s not good looking enough to risk the awkward situation that would ensue if I’m wrong. Later she returns not looking all that unsatisfied and I turn back to my writing. –BACK TO THE STORY- Stick to either heavy beers or neat liquor as this will slow down your drinking. Once you hit midnight, go full f*****g bore and leave your keys with a friend you trust. This is the stage where you’re expected to do something you’ll regret. The whole point of a bender is to degrade yourself to such a degree that you’ll eventually pull yourself up by the bootstraps and get your shit together. So be merry like like a thousand Dionysus’ on queludes, you deserve it.

Just as I’m about to order my second round, Aimee calls. Apparently I’d left a hilarious message on her voicemail while I was blacked out last night and she wants to hang out. I contemplate asking her the content of my amusing message but decide against it. I swear, cell phones should have an attached breathalyzer. The plan was to go to Lounge, one of my regular hangouts. It’s a good idea to bring a first date to familiar turf. It’s all about the home field advantage. With all the girls I’ve brought there, I must look to Mary, the owner, like the biggest of s***s. All this turned out to me moot since Aimee stopped answering her phone after five. I decided to go there anyways and embark on the same kind of drunken adventure that had gotten me her number in the first place.

All was well, I sat contently having a Pabst and read the newest Sedaris book for a couple of hours when, despite having accepted the fact that I was being blown off, Aimee called. It turned out that her cell phone had died and the only reason she was able to get a hold of me was that I’d earlier left a message with my number on it. Christ, it’s always something like that. She was at a friend’s house and wanted me to go with her to The Church, a trendy downtown nightclub that only p***y could lure me to.

Aimee gave me directions to the house where they were getting ready at and soon, without a goodbye to the loving staff at Lounge, I was under way. It was a quick drive and despite some initial trouble finding the place I got there intact. Aimee met me at the door and invited me in for a shot of Stolie Vanil, ironically Katie’s drink of choice. After my shot she hands me a manila envelope and says “Here, look at these.” Without opening the ominous package I already knew what it was. Earlier in the day she had said that she was busy at a photo shoot. Due to her occupation I could only imagine that the photography was not landscapes. Much to my relief there were no photos of her with a banana up her t**t. They were nudes but all tasteful. I gave them a quick once over and said “Yea, they look good.” And returned them to the envelope. “f**k that!” she said. “Take a better look. There’s naked pictures of me in there.” I once again withdrew the photos and gazed upon them like a pair of pocket rockets. After what I felt was a cursory examination, I replace them and tell her what a good job the photographer had done.

About this time the infamous friend arrives. His name is Ben and was a pretty swell guy for a pothead. We take another shot and get in my car. This is the first time Aimee has seen my ride. Not too long ago I found that my bank statement was unusually large and decided to splurge on a BMW 325is. Say what you want but I firmly believe that of the few things that make man deserving of an immortal soul, a finely engineered German automobile is one of them. Judging by my appearance, I could tell she expected me to be driving a jalopy and was delighted to see the transportation I had provided. We begin to pile in when Aimee began to make, in her scantly clad attire, a convincing argument that she should drive. Being both an idiot and a sucker for women I agree.

What ensues is an orgy of break neck speed careening the wrong way down one way streets as Aimee tries to little avail to locate a club she has been to countless times before. As, for the first time I sit in the passenger seat of the vehicle that I hold more dear than my right to due process of law, I hear the fervent and agonizing screams coming from my clutch. I eventually put my foot down and say that I’m driving and get us there without injury. Later she commented on what a dumb a*s I was for letting her drive so drunk in the first place. Son of a…….

We arrive at the club and are escorted past the line and the cover charge thanks to Aimee’s reputation. About this time I head straight for the nearest bar for a much needed drink and order a round for the three of us. We drink our drinks and mingle among the beautiful people as a Trance DJ plays a few oldies. Aimee begins dancing and drags what she deems to be a hapless newbie clubgoer onto the dance floor. You see, I have a dark social secret. I was once full blown raver trash.

My now rockabillyesque appearance does not convey that I spent the better part of high school dancing in humid warehouses whilst chemically motivated to wear pants who’s cuffs stretched to the near heavens. I was not only a raver but an avid dealer for quite some time. And quite a successful one at that. It started when I was about sixteen and I always wound up being the guy out of my group that scored for everyone. I’d go to my dealer a half dozen times a night for my pals and eventually he said that I should get paid for my effort and started giving me a bag of twenty hits of extacy at the beginning of the party in the trust that I’d either pay him later or come back for more a few times. Quickly this arrangement changed and we became partners and within a year or so contributed to about twenty five percent of all the extacy that came into town. Things went well for awhile until my then girlfriend of three years had a meth relapse and wound up being sodomized in a mountain cabin by a tweak dealer. I told my partner that after I’d had my revenge upon this d*****t and dumped my girlfriend that I was going straight. He was cool about my decision and one week later was sentenced to eight years hard time for a deal I would have been at. All this melodrama aside, needless to say I’ve danced to my fair share of Trance tracks and wowed Aimee and Ben with my skill. We danced and drank all night and when last call was beckoned, the plan was to drop Ben off and to go back to my place.

We got back to the car and made it over to the house we’d met at earlier to have one last drink before we left. We entered the house to find a bunch of people already partying in the living room. I was soon informed by Ben that one of these guys was Aimee’s ex-boyfriend, whom he was still friends with. Within moments of us entering, Aimee and her ex got into a lurid verbal fight that led them to the basement. I waited patiently for awhile until Ben finally came to me and said that I’d better go and not to be disheartened as he is of the opinion that Aimee really likes me and that he’ll put in the good word for me.

That Was Over Two Months Ago

I’m on the phone with Aimee, sitting there with Cassie and Carrie at the party when the inevitable happens. I see Katie walk through the front door. Just as we make eye contact, “Wicked Game” begins playing on the P.A.. This is significant as it is the closest thing we had to a song. There was a time, while we were driving up in the mountains together, that we just couldn’t keep our hands off each other and wound up pulling off to the side of the road and made love on the passenger seat. As this song came on the radio, Katie told me she loved me for the first time. It was as beautiful as it is heartbreaking to remember. Aimee tells me where she’s at just as Katie comes over while and asks me what I’m doing after the party. I put my hand over the reciever and tell her I’m busy, I have a hot date with an exotic dancer.

Journal Entry 7

New Years Eve 2003

I’ve been running around like a madman all day. First I spent two hours at the library going over recipes for what is to be our first romantic dinner together. I finally decide on tortellini in a lobster cream sauce. Then I had to pick up my tux. I’ve never worn a tuxedo to anything but a wedding before but figured it was worth dishing out the clam’s for the aesthetic of looking hep. The hard part was finding a rental place that had “real” bowties and not the cheesy clip on ones. The only reason I wanted to wear a tux in the first place was that I wanted to walk around with the tie undone and a drink in my hand like Dean Martin in an old Vegas review. After that it was on to grocery shopping. I’ve been eating at work for the last couple of months and haven’t cooked a meal at home in ages so this would entail buying everything involved including table salt. $90 later I had to get wine and champagne. Even though we’d be going to the party right after dinner, I felt both were necessary.

When I arrived back at my place, what followed was like an orgy of Iron Chef meets Queer Guy as I both tried to make my cave presentable and prepare a gourmet feast. Luckily the place was in a certain amount of order and I had ample experience in the kitchen. This may surprise you but I am an accomplished chef. When my father The Captain, got custody of me after my mother ran away with the babysitter, I went from living like a virtual Sultan to succumbing to a near “Lord of the Flies” existence and had to fend for myself. The man had never had to raise a son but had had many a roommate and treated me in much the same manner. Every week when he went grocery shopping he bought five “TV” dinners and a steak. All of which were labeled “DAD” with a Sharpie before being put in the freezer. The steak was for Sunday and he ate out on Saturday which was date night. This left me with a fridge full of condiments and none of the pre-cursory building blocks for food. I had to use my allowance and paper route money to buy chicken breasts and spaghetti fixins to evade anemia. In the process I learned cooking through the undergraduate program of the School of Hard Knocks. Over the years I developed the ability to not only make a meal edible but satisfactory to the palate. In my days as a drug dealer I regularly held family style diners on Sundays to both celebrate my customers blowing a weeks worth of cash and my partners’ haven accomplished a job well done.

Katie was due at my house at nine which meant I had to haul a*s to make sure my drunken a*s looked presentable and the meal was prepared by the time she got there. Luckily just as the doorbell rang, the meal was ready, the candles were lit, and I smelt adequate at best. Knowing my intentions of wearing a tux, Katie walked through my door bearing a corsage made of a white rose. Neither of us had attended our prom so she did this in a both sentimental and sarcastic gesture. After taking her coat I put on a Billy Holliday record, and let me tell you, Billy Holliday should be a controlled substance. I am yet to score with her greatest hits being played in a dim room. It’s Roofies for the audiophile.

We ate and drank by candlelight until ten, when I covered her eyes, and despite complaints about what I was doing, led her to the balcony where I uncovered them and handed her a glass of champagne as the fireworks started over the skyscrapers of downtown as we watched, entangled in the way lovers become, on my cool balcony.

A quickie against my wet bar later, we were off to the new years party. The host Jake, owned an office building in the projects that had been converted into a very large condo. Despite wary glances from crack heads at our evening gown and tuxedo laden attire, we arrived both early and unharmed. It was at the party that Katie unveiled her New Years present to me. It was a bottle of aged %100 pure agave tequila she’d procured in Mexico and was saving for a special occasion. Had an appropriate ring been at hand, I would’ve married her off right there. We took what can only be described as a sip off tit of the gods off the bottle and watched as the party developed.

Shot of Tequila (Neat)

1oz tequila
drink, pray you’ll do nothing you’ll later regret.

Much to my chagrin, my ex, the mother of all things dammed, the queen of darkness,
Erin, somehow had arrived.

Anyway, I try to be cordial and make conversation but Erin only seems to want to ignore me and make kissy face with some random guy in strategic locales where I can see them both. Katie sees this and asks me.

"Is that your old girlfriend?"

"Yea."

"And she brought a guy to your friends party?"

"Yea."

"What a b***h."

"Yea."

"Do you want her to leave?"

"...Yea."

She then laid a big wet one on me right on the kitchen counter, knocking over keg cups and generally making a scene. When all was said and done, Erin and the poor
b*****d left and I was free to enjoy a night of worry free inebriation.

Well, parties at Jake's house always end up in the hot tub. I think it's an
established scientific fact that when you get a bunch of drunk people together near any body of water larger than a bathtub, they're going to get naked and hop in. This is even more so the case with my friends since we don't even need any water around to get naked (yours truly excluded).

This was for the time being delayed since there was a blizzard brewing that had the partygoers ensconced within the confines of the house. Katie and I made our way out to the back porch for a cigarette and as I showed her the hot tub we could do nothing but ravish each other right there in the brisk winter night. And amongst bubbles rising dangerously close to my a*s and boxers and panties floating in the void, we made love beneath the stars and fire of the night sky.



The Present

Riding along the dark and windy side streets to meet Aimee, I wondered why this memory of all things was racing through my head. The answer was almost too simple. It was the best night of my entire life. That night I had no reservations about my happiness or questions about my place in the world. That night I was content. Tonight on the other hand, I am filled with nothing but questions.

f*****g Aimee. Aimee is trouble, the kind of trouble all men seek in their lives. Despite her being a drunken off the hook total out of control whack job, she’s a hell of a hoot to hang out with. Her being five years younger than I seems to rekindle a less cynical and more foolishly optimistic period of my existence. A time when doing a handful of Ecstasy on a weeknight, despite my obligations the next day, seemed a simply fetching idea. Then again it doesn’t hurt that she’s drop f****n’ dead balls to the wall three mile island super fly TNT leave it to Beaver g*****n Jesus Christ gorgeous. I suppose that’s the icing on the cake of dating a girl younger than my niece. Don’t ask, I’m Mexican for f**k’s sake.

I digress, it seems I’d found a rather brilliant way to send off with Katie and the rest of the flock whilst keeping by balls seemingly intact. The fact of the matter was that I held no illusions that night of re-flowering Aimee. The truth is that we’ve yet to seal the deal, slip between the sheets, do the horizontal mambo, or wax poetic. As a matter of fact, it’s been an arduous three months since I’ve dipped my pen in the company ink, or any ink for that matter. That may not seem like an eon to you but when coming from a thrice daily schedule of mind blowing monkey f*****g the likes of which I was accustomed to zilch, zero, nada punanna, it’s like going through heroin relapse. Once you’ve set yourself into a regular monkey f**k routine and are faced with going cold turkey, the withdrawal symptoms are taxing to say the least.

So I make my way to the Park Tavern, incidentally where Aimee and I had first met, flying at both half mast and half the speed of light the whole way. When I arrive I find Aimee being hit upon by an Abercrombie poster boy that is pushing nineteen at best. Having seen her put off such cads in the past, I walk into the dive with an aura of confidence like I’m armed with silver f*****g bullets. When I get closer it is only then that I truly know the score. The two exchange what can only be described as a “couples kiss” as I approach and Aimee and I finally make eye contact.

“Hey Dave I’m so glad you came. Jason this is my boyfriend Dave, Dave Jason.” We all look at each other awkwardly as Aimee does the mental rewind and realizes her mistake. “Oh sorry I mean Jason Dave, Dave Jason.” It’s times like this that I realize why I don’t carry a piece.

So it turns out that Jason is some trust fund shitheel who just bought a new Yamaha with no idea how to ride the f****r and Aimee wants me to teach him how to ride. f**k. This is not how I saw things panning out. I tell Aimee that it would be a pleasure and retire to the bathroom where I make an escape through the window like a greased ninja. Once in the alleyway I mount my bike and head for the nearest friendly pub, Streets of London, where I can get a cheap drink and hopefully my head together.

My buddy Coulter, who is a psychology student, once told me a story about the man who mistook his wife for a hat. You see the man, who was to most who observed, sane for all purposes, began to bother his wife by his behavior. She took him to a psychologist who submitted him to a regimen of tests and concluded that he was in perfect mental health until the conclusion of the visit when the man tried to leave and began to rub his wife’s head on his and became frustrated. When asked what he was doing by the psychologist he replied that he was trying to put his hat on and couldn’t quite figure it out. You see the man had a crossed wire in his melon that made him see his hat at the sight of his spouse and his wife at the sight of his headpiece. Aside from that he was perfectly sane.

Riding to the bar that night I feel like that man. Like there’s something totally obvious that continues to elude me. If only it could be pointed out by a non-objective party, it would all make perfect sense. If only I could distinguish love from a way to keep the sun out of my eyes.

Journal Entry 8

Whoever said liquor then beer never fear should be lined up and shot. I used to laugh at people older than me who would complain about how hangovers got worse with age. “p***y!” I would say. “Be a man!” I don’t say that anymore.

I am in the darkest of places. A hangover is a peculiar kind of pain. It can’t be isolated. It isn’t just a headache or nausea. It isn’t just muscle pain or fatigue. It is a co-operation of terribleness. A team effort. My body is trying to tell me something. My body is mad. Very mad. “How could you do this to us?” It’s saying. “I thought we had a deal? I give you a vessel for your immortal soul and you don’t get shit-faced on a Monday night!”

Nothing will help. A pot of coffee, five Newports, and a handful of Doritos later, my body is still mad. Only the sweet release of death or the passing of a couple of hours will free me from this anguish. And I hate to use the word anguish. I can’t even sleep. Every f*****g time I get a hangover I wake up way too early and I wake up drunk. Not a good fun kind of drunk. The bad when will it ever end kind of drunk.

My body is saying, “Wake up a*****e! You did this to us and you’ll be damn sure you’re gonna have to sit this m**********r through with me. Why didn’t I drink more water? Every f*****g time I get drunk I say to myself, “Don’t forget to drink at least eight glasses of water before you go to bed.” Every f*****g time I wind up forgetting, watching TV, goofing around on the computer, playing guitar badly, anything but thinking ahead to the inevitable awfulness.

Over the years I’ve found that there are only two sure fire cures for a hangover. Exercise and getting drunk all over again. The first I found out about by accident. A while back I took up running. Well, it started as panting stricken jogging and evolved into running. At the time I was an applicant in the Denver fire department and needed to get in shape for the demanding physical evaluation. Six months before I was to take the test I vowed to run, jog, walk, or crawl at least two miles a day. The first few weeks were pure hell but before long I went from running a block and coughing up blood to being able to do the full trip without a break. The only problem was that my running shorts didn’t have a pocket for my cigarettes. During this process I found that if I were hung over from the night before, all symptoms were gone by the first half-mile. For this reason I decide that the best way to deal with today’s hangover was to go for a run downtown in hopes that it would alleviate the cross I’ve dranken myself upon. If all else fails I can hit the bar and opt for plan B.

Somehow in the previous nights revelry I’d managed to lose my sunglasses. So on my run as I struggle to squint a less than hazy image through my weary eyes, I look upon my town like I might look over my father lying vulnerable and impotent in a cheap casket. To say the least, this place has changed and I yearn for the glory days. My youth was spent in a town filled with spit and vinegar. The setting of my adulthood is the aftermath of a post suburban nightmare.

Back in the old days being from Denver meant you were some liquored up shitkickin’ redneck lookin to shoot an injun in the back. Nowadays it means you’re a tiara wearin debutante who can’t be more than fifty yards from a Starbucks. My how the destitute have risen.

These are the things I’m thinking about on my run. The pussification of my home. At this point I know I have about an hour until I have to be at work and I also know that the running is doing jack shit to silence the demo team that’s hammering away against the inside of my skull. Time for plan B.

I go home to clean up and ponder over where to get my pre shift buzz on. On the same block as my bar is another bar that is basically the same thing, an overpriced filling station for sports morons. I’ve never been there before and decide that it would be an educational experience to see how the competition operates.

I get there and the place is a carbon copy of my work. Even the barstools are the exact same f*****g stools we have. It’s as if I’ve stepped into another dimension and gone to work to find this place. Walking in I feel like the hero in some World War II movie who has to wear a Nazi uniform and sneak behind enemy lines to steal the plans, blow up the bridge, whatever. I seat up at the bar and find that in this dimension that I’m a woman and not a bad looking one at that.

Now if you’re ever out and about, buying groceries, riding a bus, at a bar, what have you, and you see a beautiful woman and for some reason she sparks that certain something in your imagination, you wonder what your children look like or how she likes her eggs, look away. Leave, get the f**k out of there because the longer you look the sooner you’ll see something you don’t like. Never learn too much about something you love or else you’ll grow to hate it. I need a drink, I hate it when I get like this.

So I order a pitcher of Coors and she gives me the same strange look I always get when I order a pitcher by myself. I mean, I know how much I’m gonna drink. What’s the problem with ordering it all at once to save a couple of bucks? Not to mention I’m, gonna drink it fast enough that it will become neither warm nor flat during the process.

The bartender starts making small talk with me, specifically why I’m getting shitfaced at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and I find myself momentarily speechless on this side of the bar. I consider delivering some of the b******t my patrons throw at me every day but decide against it. I’m the kind of guy who won’t ask a person with a cast what happened, knowing they’ve told the story at least a dozen times that day and it’s the last thing they want to hear.

I decide to tell her the truth, that I work next-door and am tying one on before work. We get to exchanging stories about our jobs and I can’t help but think about how cool it would be to work here. It’s not that there’s any one thing that’s particularly alluring about this place, it’s just the prospect of something different. The grass is always greener. I’m tired of serving the same cocksuckers that I just want to send to yuppie heaven day in day out. I want new cocksuckers. Maybe the problem is that I’ve held this job for almost a year. A personal record for me. I’ve worked many a job over the years and have never held one for more than a couple of months. My vocations in chronological order.

Paper Boy – Back when they still had them.
Door to door salesman – For said paper.
Door guy/Dishwasher – At a coffee shop my friends hung out at.
Security Guard – Concerts and raves. Got to help kill a guy. Long story.
Meatwagon – Delivering bodies for a mortuary service. Good pay bad hours.
Drug dealer – Self explanatory.
Starbucks – Yes believe it or not. My pennance for being a criminal.
Pool Hall – Best job ever.
Bodyguard – For a stripper at bachelor parties who had the hots for me.
Executive – Managed the implementation of solution based infrastructure. Wore a tie.
Bartender – My first posting after bartending U.
Gunsmith – Owned my own company making guns for law enforcement.
Salesman – Simultaneous as above at a gun store. Second best Job ever.
The present – Convincing myself on a daily basis not to eat a bullet.

All of which does not add up to an impressive resume.

I look to my watch and realize that I have about five minutes to get to work on time. I’ve been early every day for the last ten months but last week came in fifteen minutes late and got berated like I brained a customer with a bottle of schnapps. I best make haste.

As I’m leaving I peer across the bar and spot a beautiful young blonde dressed either like she is later presenting an Oscar or is a w***e I couldn’t afford with two paychecks. As I carefully examine her architecture I witness something few men get to see a woman of this caliber do. She scratched her a*s. Not a going over of the surface area but a full on deep core mining expedition. I thought she was gonna need a hard hat and a flashlight. Needless to say this felt humbling. Whenever I spy a woman out of my range of shagtitude scratching her a*s or picking her nose I feel a certain balance with the universe. It brings you in touch with the mortality of the beautiful people. Get on the cover of People, guest host on Regis and Kelly, land a TV movie, eventually your crack will itch. And someone like me will bee there to see.

On my way over to work I see a bazillion little ants carrying grains of sand back and forth to construct an impressive three inch high anthill. I stop for a moment and wonder how many ant hours have been spent constructing this microcosm of a monstrosity. I also think about how easy it would be to crush the thing beneath my heel. With all the ants who have toiled and died building this monument beside the sidewalk, I could destroy it all with the same amount of effort it takes to scratch my sack.

In the end I decide against bring fire and brimstone about the ant people in the thought that the effort is not worth their suffering. It makes me wonder if god views us in much the same way. Not even an annoyance but rather a distraction that could be eradicated should he see fit. We all found joy in bringing the wrath of a magnifying glass to insects in our youth. Perhaps Sodom and Gomorrah were the result of immaturity.

When I arrive the place is packed. Not because we have an event tonight but rather because my work has become a nexus for teenage peddlers of a f****d up pyramid scheme. At first their numbers were small. They would order a soda and sit together in the back going over papers of some sort undisturbed. Today there’s about twenty of the little p****s sucking each others dicks over how rich they’ll all someday be. At first their presence didn’t bother me but now that all my afternoon tables are occupied by these underage Carlton Sheets wannabes I can’t help but feel like a babysitter for the ignorant.

I’m relieving Karen this afternoon and as she’s about to leave she asks me if there’s anything I need before she heads out. I tell her to re-stock the Rolling Rock and ask the cute new girl Jessica out for me. She obliges and goes about her business for a few minutes. When she gets back she tells me that the beer is stocked and that Jessica is going to a concert tonight and that I should go talk to her.

Shit. f**k. Shitfuck. This is just not good. I’ve had a crush on Jessica ever since she started here and did not want to break the ice like a third grader. For the next couple of hours I’m frantically trying to figure out a way to approach her. After that kind of segue there’s no good way to do this.

Behind the bar with me is one of our maintenance guys working on the leaky well drain. He’s young and pretty likable so we shoot the shit talking about work and exchanging war stories what have you. I bring up the Amway brats and try to explain what little I’ve gleaned about their scam. It seems like they’re trying to sell these boneheads some packet of market research surveys that they will in turn try to pawn off on even more boneheads in hopes of a commission drawn from the echelons below them. The maintenance guy tells me about how he got pulled into one of these schemes once and will never fall for it again. He then gets almost awkwardly personal and wants to know about my life, childhood, family, everything. At first I figured him for a poofta but soon the awful truth came to light. He asks if I’d like to become a millionaire. I tell him that that would likely put me into a higher tax bracket.

What follows is a not too well rehearsed pitch about how I stand to make literally zillions in the world of e-commerce. The scam seems to be basically identical to Amway, i.e. buying generic consumables through multi level marketing, only through the internet. After he finishes his half hour long sales pitch I tell him that Thomas Edison once said to beware of all business ventures that require new shoes. He asks what that is supposed to mean and I tell him that I won’t consider any job offer that requires an initial investment.

It gets to closing time and when I finish my side work I ask Cassie where Jessica is. She tells me that she had to leave early to get to some concert on time and I just missed her. Fiddlesticks. In a way I’m almost relieved, there were few ways not to look like an a*s given the situation and I accept losing the battle and not the war. With Cassie and I the only people left as we’re closing I ask her if she wants to lock up and have a few drinks before we leave and she agrees.

What follows is the longest conversation Cassie and I have ever had whilst clothed and not fellating eatchother. Invariably the topic of conversation turns to Katie. She tells me about how she thinks I got a bad rap and admits that she never really liked her.

“She kinda put a bad taste in my mouth.”


After she says this there is an awkward silence as we both bring our drinks to our lips and freeze frame as we both realize the hilarity of the situation. We both begin laughing hysterically and lean into each other as we regain our composure. In celebration of having a laugh at the harpy's expense I make a couple of Red Headded s***s.

Red Headed s**t

1 1/2 oz Jägermeister
1 1/2 oz Peach schnapps
Fill with Cranberry juice

When the laughter subsides Cassie finally speaks.

“By the way. Yesterday was her last day. She quit.”

There is a god.

Journal Part 9

“The worlds worst b*****b is still better than the best day at work.” – Paul 2001


So as Cassie and I sit and drink, another interesting point comes to light. It seems the rumor around the office is that I’m in for a promotion. Being that it’s the down season we’ve lost almost eighty percent of our staff to bars that don’t rely wholly on a glorified gym period to stay in business. Among the recent casualties were all of our managers. My previous manager, upon leaving, mentioned my of all names as an adequate replacement to lead the troops once again into the breach of the next hockey season. This comes as a complete surprise. All this time I’ve been biding my time until I get fired and it seems they view me as a model employee. I pontificate on the possibility of this promotion and realize that whilst my responsibilities will double, my income will triple. Deep down we’re all a w***e at heart. Right now my inner w***e is telling me that this is good news.

Happy hour over at Streets of London starts in twenty minutes so I decide to close shop and cut our conversation short. Upon locking the doors to the bar, Cassie invites me out to hang with some of her friends (Please come and have crazy monkey sex with me.). To this I say that I’m not sure (Yes, more monkey sex would be nice.). Since our previous interlude I have fantasized about the possibility of laying pipe with her once again but instead tell her that I have other things to do and that I’ll see her tomorrow, despite how desperately I want to nose dive into her feminine area. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

So I call it quits and head over to the bar. Along the way I realize that I haven’t eaten in over a day and that this is a recipe for disaster. After an hour of talking about Katie the last thing I need is an empty stomach on top my nightly alcohol prescription. On the way to the bar is a Wendy’s that is open late so I opt to stop in for a meal that will hopefully vanquish the forces of pilsner at my liver’s gates.

When I get there I notice a stack of suggestion cards next to the register. I grab a handful of the cards, get my food, and take a spot in the back corner. Whenever I’m at a place that has these silly cards I do this. I get a bunch and write, in several different pen colors and handwriting styles, the most exemplary responses I can muster while at the same time trying not going over the edge.

“I’m touring across the country in my Streamline 500 and have been to dozens of Wendy’s upon my travels but never have I been served a better Big Bacon Classic Combo than was prepared by Ramon, the gentlemen in your employ whom I had the pleasure of serving me this evening. He is a credit to the Wendy’s corporation and should you hire more like him, I will be sure to continue to frequent your franchise on my travels.”

“I must admit I am what you might call a ‘Burger King man’ but by a twist of fate I found my automobile in disrepair and as a result of chronic hunger was forced to entertain your restaurant by sheer happenstance. Upon entering I was greeted by Trisha, a model employee, who explained the nuances of the Wendy’s menu with what can only be explained as pure eloquence. Trisha is a credit to your organization and I am now officially a frequenter of Wendy’s.”

I do this. I order my gruel, read a few nametags and b******t on a few dozen comment cards. It gives me something to do while I drink my chocolate shake and just might change the life of some herpe ridden dropout. Call me a saint or call me bored. It’s still fun.

On my way to the bar I begin to feel a certain emptiness within. A longing. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. At the time I had a decent buzz, was smoking a cigarette, and had just eaten a decent meal. What was missing? What was it I needed and lacked? What was I accustomed to but was withdrawn from? What did I require?

I came upon a realization. p***y. Yes, p***y. I remember this thing. The memory is foggy at best but I remember it none the less. p***y was once a good thing. A reward for a job well done. Something to look forward to. I needed this. This p***y. But how? The bar. Yes! The bar! The p***y is there. I’ve found it there before, I can do it again. It’s all so simple. Oh wait, I’m here.

So I’m at Streets of London. My place of last resort. The place they know me at. Where they won’t 86 me for puking or passing out. My home away from home. I walk in and decide to put back a few scotches and write for a bit when I come face to face with an apparition. Jessica. She grabs my shoulder, the first time she’s ever touched me, and says how nice it is to see me.

“I grav der blert not who.” I say.

She doesn’t understand.

“What thlip qwer stot.”

She asks who I came here with.

Eventually I’m able to form intelligible sentences and ask her what she’s doing here. She tells me that her concert got canceled and she came here to do as many Car bombs as possible before last call. This news does not disappoint me.


Belfast Car bomb

1oz Baileys in shot glass
Half pint of Guinness

Drop shot in pint, drink, do a jig.



Jessica asks me to join her at a table and we begin our first conversation deeper than how many Jager shots she needs for table 120. As it turns out we have a lot in common. We like the same indie bands, dig the same movies, shit, If I liked iced cream it would probably be the same flavor. All is well until she tells me. She’s leaving. For good, to Portland, forever. Shit. The less I believe in God the more I’m sure he has a hilarious master plan set out for me.

We do a few rounds of Car bombs and exchange numbers to presumably hang out in the brief amount of time she has left in Denver and she leaves after giving me a wink on her way out. And that’s that. The lights come on and the bouncer yells “Last call” and I sit at the table knowing what the golden fleece feels like knowing I’ll never bring it home. At least I have my beer. Oh wait. No I don’t, the busser just grabbed it half full.

I make my way back home nursing my flask and wonder where I went wrong. I know that there’s no right answer to this question. I know that I was powerless to intervene. It still feels wrong. Then it happens. In a moment when I was most vunerable, I get a call. I fumble for my phone and can’t believe what I see on the screen. INCOMING CALL : TRACI. Traci? Why now, it’s been months? What could she possibly want?

That’s what I remember.

* * *

I wake up to the sound of the shower running. I figure that it’s my roommate up early for a probation hearing. I then notice that the covers are awkwardly comfortable. They feel too soft. They smell too good. This is not my bed. Where am I?

I open my eyes and survey my surroundings. Paintings on the walls, carpet on the floor, a certain lack of empty beer bottles strewn about. This is not my home. A naked figure steps out of the bathroom running a towel through her hair and stops over to give me a kiss on the cheek. She makes her way over to the dresser and fetches some pajamas that she nonchalantly adorns and casually says “I’m making eggs.” As she leaves the room through the other door.

I know this place. This is Traci’s bedroom. I know what that warm mass next to my leg is. That’s Miko. Her pet Chihuahua. He makes an about face and positions himself on the pillow beside me and says.

“Dave. What are you doing here?”

I tell the dog that I’m not exactly sure.

“Dave.” He says. “I’m gonna level with you. I like you. I always have. But have you gone completely butfuck crazy? Do you remember what this girl is like? I mean I love her and all but god damn she can get on your nerves.”

I tell him that it wasn’t all that bad.

“Were you asleep the entire time you two were going out? Once she gets her claws in you again there’s no turning back.”

I tell him that he’s exaggerating.

“b******t man. You know as well as I do that if you get back together with her that it’ll be the same old song. You being her lapdog. And quite frankly let me tell you its a shit job.”

He’s right and I tell him so.

“Then get your a*s out of here and take your balls with you. It’s nice to have someone pick up your shit but its not worth wearing a leash.”

The dog is right, I need to leave and forget this ever happened. I go out to the kitchen and tell Traci that I’m not hungry and need to get to work.

“Alright honey, just let me clean up and I’ll drop you off.” I’m such a b*****d. Words cannot describe how awful a person I am. There is no punishment for my crime.

Without a word about the previous nights events she drops me off a full four hours early at my work, gives me a kiss and says she’ll call me. As I enter the tomb that is my vocation, clouds collect on the horizon. It begins to rain and thunder. And it’s all my fault.

Read the whole thing, it's rather entertaining.

These own, thanks xarp

Quote:

I know this place. This is Traci’s bedroom. I know what that warm mass next to my leg is. That’s Miko. Her pet Chihuahua. He makes an about face and positions himself on the pillow beside me and says. “Dave. What are you doing here?” I tell the dog that I’m not exactly sure.

it had its moments. THIS was the best part of the whole thing LOL

I don't know who this guy is who posted this but my name is Dave Lawrence and I am the author of the Novel "The Bartender Journals" of which these posts are taken from. The novel was published in 2006 and can be purchased here http://www.amazon.com/Bartender-Journals-Dave-Lawrence/dp/142571465X or at any Barnes & Noble. It seems like this guy stole an early draft of the first nine chapters that I posted on Somethingawful.com back in 2004. The book itself is actually 21 chapters long and underwent major revisions from the version posted here. I hate to be a j**k but this is my intellectual property so please, grow a d**k and stop taking credit for other peoples work.

Cheers,
Dave