There were many things I could say that my mother deserved that made my hatred look pathetically insignificant, but to make a list would be both worthless and arduous. Like many, I happened to be busy when I had the urge to do so, which was both a gift and curse from the mighty pooh bah Himself. If I did have time, I would be more cursed than blessed. And this time, one had to put trust in this: one g/c from every Christian's pooh bah was just a break for my grand old poo.
What I had been doing that saved me was simply a detail, but I say it anyway. My pastime at that moment had been with my glorious old amigo Dom Perignon.
This was a detail because I had other friends nearby, like Coors and Grey Goose, and sometimes Budweiser. Even that old bastard Heineken. They had nothing on ol' Dom, but GG and Bud were just the life of the party. After all, what else can a bartender expect on game nights, even if it isn't a sports bar? Every bar could be packed whenever the Lakers triumphed (because of the season they obviously weren't) or when USC kicked UCLA's ass.
As for tonight, there was some hockey game I chose not to comment on the moment I opened up the bar and started pouring. It was, again, a minor detail. This time, an unworthy one.
Anyway, I found myself licking the lips of Perignon that night the minute my shift ended, and soon I began to think about everything that depressed me to near-death. Naturally, Ancient Pearl came up before the bubbles could on my glass. And God, that was a downer, or was it a drowner? Was I too drunk to tell? I always had a personal test to see if I was getting there, but even those never worked. All I knew was that parents sucked. Especially moms. And dads. And the ones in between. Like...dads and dads, for example. The parents were to blame for everything, including their children. What amount of spite could bring them to do such stupid things like having children? They know they can't raise them, but they do it anyway. For it, people such as myself became bartenders, and bar owners. And like my friend Cadsee Marpfork, awesome drinkers.
Thoughts like that came from Dom and Mom, but they all slowed down once my salvation showed up in the form of a Mr. Hatez. My most notorious and valued customer. Also, the only person besides my mommy that was like my mommy: I couldn't read his shoes. In he came like some type of flat-bellied Zorro, and out again like a drunken lord. In between a person could hear the most amazing stories about him, and his adventures that made Dean Moriarty look like a priest of genius. From the West to East he'd done things I was sure he'd been drunk to pitiful stupidity doing. Some stories challenged that though, because he had to be the smartest man I knew. The bravest one too. Who else would have the cojones to try the famous bull run while trying to light a firework (or two--he doesn't remember) in the direction of a fucking bull that's already running after them? I tell you! Hearing his smooth voice made one feel like they were rustling silk before they actually realized what he said he did, in such a casual voice like nothing was going on. It also didn't help that he was so damn cute. For an old guy, at least.
He was nothing more than a man with a few stories, coming in to a place where people could believe anything and say lies right back and be believed just the same, but he was one that told them pretty damn well. Every word was dripping in sincerity, so much sincerity that I couldn't catch a lie in it. His face was more of distracting than easy, and when he smiled and told his jokes, who could concentrate on discovering his true person? He was that golden grandpa that didn't age and didn't get any. He was the timeless soul we all wanted as girls and all wanted around us as guys.
However, the best part was, he was beelining towards me, with a beautiful smile. I was too drunk now to try again with new discovery.
One wonder, however, was lucky enough to slip into my mind and I voiced it immediately despite the fact that he probably would only be able to hear the roars of the fans around us.
"Why's a smart, funny, good-looking man with purpose in the middle of a sports frenzy? I ask you!" my lips puckered on their own and smiled thanks to the alcohol. Oh, I already couldn't handle it!
"I don't know, I just got off a plane from Johannesburg. Screw all games. I ride my own silk train." he sang, and then I realized he was drunk as well. Funny how such handsome men could have unaffected faces after that pinching you feel when you drink. All I could do was hate him and love him and suddenly vomit on him when he reaches for a warm hug. He didn't seem to notice, so on I continued until he finally noticed the smell.
"How did this get here?" he asked, and rushed off and out to clean up, obviously not coming back since he knew no one would be there. I only let him go with the drunken truth that a man like him was taken. He was so taken his girl probably made him swoon and even be comfortable around other women who were hopelessly in love with his stories. He was so taken all he could do was go back home for more. The lovely man. And his girl.
Well, she had to be quite a number herself.
As soon as he left, I damned him straight to hell. Not because he had someone else, but because I instantly went back to my woes.
It was obvious who was first on that list.
Sorry. That's just me. Pretty interesting story, though, if you can get passed that. What are you trying to communicate? Make that more clear. My only advise. Writergirl
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