“So
gentleman, what is on the agenda tonight?” I said as I poured myself my usual
two fingers worth of whiskey.
“Well” my
friend Vincent (who we all called Snake) said, “There is always the Bier Stube.
You know, that German bar across town. They have a three dollar German beer
special tonight.”
“Thoughts,
concerns?” I said to my friend Tyler as I poured Coke into my glass.
“No, that
sounds fantastic. Totally beats drinking in your seventies time machine of a
basement.”
What Tyler
had said was true. While my basement was furnished, its base level decorum
reeked of the drug inspired brown-yellow design pallet of the early 1970’s. What a strange contradiction this room held I
thought to myself as I looked at a picture of Frank Sinatra hanging on my wall.
Even
stranger to my mind’s eye was that I was listening to Scentless Apprentice off
of Nirvana’s In Utero, as shortly before hand, I had excused myself to my
utility room to take a hit off of my oneie. Grunge was something which I never
enjoyed listening to while high. As Grunge only worked its charm for me when I
was in a depressed mood.
But back to
my cannabis smoking. While I was never the biggest stoner, at the time, I liked
to smoke pot as a way to moderate my drinking as the roar from the tigers of my
addiction to alcohol were placated through poly-drug use.
As I sat on
my bar stood chair, the THC began to work its way through the byzantine
conduits of my brain. I then drifted off from my friend’s conversation about
The White Strips into a thought-play about Neo-Nazis in outer-space fighting
the Allied Earth Nations through giant fighting robot based space battles.
I was
brought back into direct consensus when heard the lines “I promise not to sell
your perfumed secrets. There are countless formulas for pressing flowers” which
in the hydroponic/alcoholic daze I was in I mistook as “I promise not to reveal
your secretes. California holds depressing flowers.”
Damn,
pot is too much of an effeminate drug. I thought to myself. At
least with alcohol you pay the pied piper in the morning and move on without
becoming some strung out, beatnik, hippy. Note to self: quit the drugging as
you can get away with it in your teens but these things start to catch up with
you in your early twenties. Come on, you should be ashamed of how many Led
Zeppelin albums you own on vinyl. Although, who knows, not me, I never lost
control…
“Fuck
Nirvana!” I shout aloud suddenly without provocation. Because of this
disturbance, and since I was in the mood to be a totally pretentious dick, I
put on Moondog’s Bird’s Lament:
“The only one who knows this ounce of
words as just a token, is he who has a tongue to tell but must remain
unspoken.”
After a few
moments of group silence I said to my friends. “Ok gents! Let’s finish our
drinks and head out.” I took a hold of my glass, “Chin-Chin!” raised it in a toast, and then downed my
drink in a few large gulps. The way in which I gulped my alcohol often worried
my family as they decried it as a sign of alcoholism. I mean, from my position
I thought drinking in such a manner was alright as, after-all, I drank for the
affect, not the taste.
As my
friends finished their drinks, I snuck off to the bathroom for one more hit of
weed in an attempt to sober up. After smoking, and tapping out my oneie into
the toilet, I found my friends waiting upstairs. We then jumped into Snake’s
Cadillac and roared off into the countryside towards town.
I sat in the
front seat and put the air conditioning on high as – being stoned and a little
sunburned- the cool jets felt fantastic on my face. Tyler sat in the backseat
and nursed a road beer that he had stolen from my basement refrigerator which
we fondly named the ‘War Chest’ as it was where he put our booty after a few
instances of stealing extra beers from house parties.
After
driving for a few minutes, we came across a group of scenester teenagers
standing on a street corner casually smoking cigarettes. Tyler was having none
of this, as he quickly rolled down his window and screamed a homophobic slur at
them. Needless to say, I was disturbed by his behavior. But, whatever, I was
far too unfocused to care since I was jamming out to Stevie Ray Vaughan and
enjoying the cool air conditioning on my somewhat sunburned face.
We eventually
arrived at the Bier Stube and pulled in post position near the front door. As I
got out of the car, I saw that there were a group of bikers smoking outside.
Why
are they smoking outside? Don’t they know that this is a smoke-easy?
“Pardon me,
sirs.” I said as I slide in-between two rather rugged looking bikers.
My friends
and I walked up to the bar and took our regular seats in front of the tap.
“Terri my
dear.” I waved over to the bartender. “How is it going tonight?”
“You know,
the usual. Just had an interesting conversation before you came in.”
“What
about?” I inquired.
“What are my
short term and long term goals.”
“What are
they?”
“Don’t have
any short term goals. But my ultimate long term goal is death.”
Terri began
to laugh loudly. I joined in with her but my laughter was obviously forced as Terri’s
nihilism was emotionally bringing me down. Plus while stoned I never liked to
think over the nature of my own mortality. You see, the paranoia from pot
smoking got to me in a similar way to how when you think about breathing you
actually have to actively breathe until you forget about doing so and the brain
takes over once again. That kind of thing but about death. As while high I had
to actively force myself to forget that I was mortal and that eventually one
day out of the blue I would have a heart attack or something and collapse on
the floor. Looking at a door, or a wall, or something trivial from ground
level, I’d probably think to myself as my brain shut down, This was all so stupid and pointless. Should have done more with my
time. But at least things will get interesting when my adrenal gland releases
its payload of adrenochrome. Oh, there we go. Pretty trippy. Au Revoir!
“We are the
dead Terri.” I sighed after we both stopped laughing. “And since that is the
case, mind getting me an ashtray? I’d like to find my way to heaven a little
bit more quickly if at all possible.”
“Sure
thing.” Terri said as she pulled out an ashtray from under the bar. “What are
you drinking?”
I look over
to my friends and motion to them both with my index finger. “Three dunkels
please.”
“Oh good,
you learned your lesson about the Jager.”
“I’ll never
drink that congealed deer blood again. “ I said as I lit a cigarette.
And so we
sat, drank, and bullshited underneath Nazi arms and memorabilia. By this time
of the night, my buzz was settling in nicely.
Feeling good
and numb, I looked up at the glass case over the back bar and saw a picture of
Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering which I considered to be a bit too much in
terms of Nazi decorations even for a German restaurant to have.
Then again,
the Bier Stube was a place which catered to people who day traveled to the
countryside. While you might not think that Nazi artifacts would be good for
business. Strangely like most of the other white suburban patrons of the Bier
Stube I found them to be rather charming.
Though
Hermann Goering wasn’t the worst offender at the Bier Stube as they also had an
autographed photo of Adolf Hitler on the far wall to my left. The menacing
visage of the Fuhrer was hung over a collection of S.S. daggers which were
without a doubt used during the Second World War. So I guess I can’t complain
that much about drinking under a picture of Goering as there were far more
sinister images of the Third Reich surrounding me.
“Hey, how
are you?” Someone said to me. I turned around to see that it was Casey, a girl
who I haven’t seen since junior high school.
“Casey, it
has been ages. How are you?” I said as I got up from my barstool and gave her a
hug.
“Good. How
about yourself?” She said.
“Can’t
complain. Finished up with school and now just sitting around these days,
drinking a bit too much, and enjoying my unemployment tour until I can find
some work.”
“That sounds
like fun. Wish I had the free time to do all of that.”
“Actually
Casey it isn’t fun as it seems. Being a booze hound is in itself a full time
job. Plus I’d like to be able to shit a solid stool for once.”
We both
laughed at that commit.
“So, I’d
love to catch up some time. Mind if I get your number?”
“Sure, let
me write it down.” Casey pulled out a cocktail napkin from the dispenser next
to her and wrote down her number. “Call me sometime.” She said as she handed me
the napkin. “I am usually free during the day. And from the sound of things you
are free whenever. So we’ll grab a drink sometime.”
“Prefect.” I
said as I put the cocktail napkin in my front jean pocket. “I’ll hit you up
later.”
I returned
to my seat and finished the rest of my dunkel. “Got her number dude.” I said to
Snake.
“Yeah, can’t
wait to see you fuck up that one.” Snake replied.
“What do you
mean?”
“Come on.
You always do this.”
“Do what?” I
asked.
“Sure, you
can get a girl’s number. But by the end of the night you are always too shit
faced to remember who it was from.”
“Honestly,”
I said to Snake, “I am not that big of a drunk.” To prove my point I stood up
from the bar and toed the tile line across the barroom floor in a self imposed
sobriety test. “See?” I said as I touched my index fingers to the tip of my
nose, “As sober as an employee at the Christian call center.”
“Oh yeah,
sure, like that proves you’re not drunk. And the Pope shits in the woods.”
“Snake, the Pope’s
expulsion rituals are not relevant to this conversation.” I said with a look of
disgust on my face. “But since you brought it up. Don’t you think that over the
two thousand years in which the institution of the papacy has been in
existence. At least one Pope has, in your words mind you, took a shit in a
wooden area? Hell, even the Blessed Pope John Paul the Second probably once
took a duce in a wooden area. I mean, considering all that hiking he did
earlier in his life.”
“Talking
about the Holy Father’s sole representative on Earth like that.” Snake said in
a fake Irish accent. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Just sit the fuck down
and have another drink already.” He motioned to Terri to bring me another
drink.
Not ever one
to refuse a refill. I retook my seat at the bar.
“Ah Murphy.”
I said to Snake while also donning a fake Irish accent. “You’re a
good cop. A damn fine one. But keep gabbing and I’ll kick your West Brit arse.”
Terri then
arrived with my beer. “Ah many thanks,
many thanks, my lady.” I said, still faking the Irish accent.
I took a sip
of my beer, and since I was tired of staring at Goering, my eyes and ears began
to wander around the bar. For a Friday, the Bier Stube was rather empty
people-wise besides the regulars, the staff, Terri the bartender, that group of
bikers I saw when I walked in, and Dawn.
I had known
Dawn since childhood as she was basically the town’s good-time-girl. At
forty-eight, this rather short woman with peroxide blonde hair had been through
hell and back as she spent most of the 2000’s under the spell of one hell of a
methamphetamine addiction. While still abusing drugs, she was like most addicts
who through the grace of poverty and time, was able to minimalize her substance
abuse to a functioning level.
My only
vivid memory of Dawn came from when I was twelve years old. I was walking in
town with my Father as we were going to the post office to check his P.O. Box. As
we walked past the bank we just so happened to cross paths with Dawn.
“Jack!” Dawn
called out to my Father. She then rushed up to greet him with a big embracing
hug. “How are you?” She asked.
“Oh, you
know, still shucking and jiving.” My Father said.
“That’s
fantastic. Hey, would you mind if I borrowed five bucks?” Dawn asked my Father.
“What for?”
He inquired.
“I need to
buy a pack of cigarettes.”
I tried to
remember what my Father had said to Dawn in response to her asking him for
money to buy cigarettes. I remembered that it was some verbal slight which was
part no-you-can-not-borrow-money-from-me, part you-are-a-drugged-out-whore, and
part get-the-fuck-away-from-me-and-my-boy. Although, it was packaged in such a manner
which made it seem like a positive compliment towards Dawn. My Father was
always a master wordsmith in that regard.
Then all of
a sudden, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the bikers walk up to Dawn
and punched her in the face.
Dawn was
knocked off of her barstool and onto the floor. “That’s what you get for fucking
my boyfriend!” The biker said as she pointed her finger in Dawn’s face.
At this
moment Dawn went from a state of shock to the realization of what had actually
happened to her. She then began to cry.
“Hey what do you think the big idea is?” Terri
shouted from behind the bar. “You might as well beat up a half-dead dog. At
least it would be able to put up a fight. Get the fuck out of here.”
The biker
straightened out her leather vest. “Jimmy, let’s go.” And with that the bikers
left the bar and roared off into the midnight distance. Probably to hit up
Suzie’s Saloon which was a few miles down the road.
After
processing what happened my mood turned quite negative as I hate seeing
violence against women. What more, I hate seeing women crying.
I sat still for
a few moments in silence and tried to lose myself in my beer. In spite of my
attempt to ignore what happened, the only sound in the bar came from Dawn who,
still sitting on the floor, was bawling like a baby. In order to drown out her
tears I began drumming my fingers on the bar counter in an irregular beat.
Eventually
after what seemed like a few minutes I couldn’t take this anymore. Fuck it. I thought to myself. I got up
from my barstool and picked up Dawn from the floor.
“Hey, hey,
hey. Shh, it’s ok, it’s ok.” I said to her as I held her in my arms.
“Everything is going to be ok.” I took a moment to look behind me and I
realized that everyone was staring at me. By their grievous looks of
what-in-God’s-name-are-you-doing-that-for, I knew that no one was going to call
the police. No one cared about what had just happened to this woman. No one
wanted to deal with her tears. To their minds, what was worse than Dawn being assaulted
was that I was validating her humanity by trying to console her.
“Hey dude,
we’re getting out of here.” Tyler said. “Come on let’s go.”
“Fuck off!”
I shouted.
Tyler sighed
and came over to me.
“Look man.
Let’s get out of here. Come on, Snake will take you home.”
I sighed
heavily and released Dawn from my arms. I then placed my hands on her shoulders.
“Are you
ok?” I asked softly.
She nodded.
Her weeping had subsided to a few sobs here and there.
“Take care
of yourself. Ok?” I said.
Dawn nodded
her head in response. I then left her under the menacing glace of Adolf Hitler and
the Bier Stube’s collection of S.S. daggers. I looked back at her one last time
as I opened the front door and found that she had somewhat pulled herself
together and returned to her seat.
My friends
and I then rode home in more of less silence as we listened to more classic
rock off of Snake’s IPod. Snake dropped me off at the edge of my driveway. And
once I got out of the car he immediately punched his accelerator to the floor
and jetted off towards the red sky which is produced from the light pollution
of Chicago.
That bastard
loved the V-8 in his new Caddie.
I then found my
way into my house after forcing the door since I had forgotten to take my house
keys. I then had some leftover ham which I cooked in the microwave. I then drank several
glasses of water (it's important to stay hydrated!) and then passed out on the couch with my headphones on while
listening to Nirvana’s Serve the Servants.
