Prelude
Another night. Another White Russian. Lost count of how many I’ve had tonight.
Lost
count of how many random conversations I’ve had tonight.
She left me hours ago. She was sick and tired of my bullshit. Hey, she’s the one who invited me out to this
watering hole in the first place.
Somewhere
in Bushwick. Or is it Bed-Stuy? Or is it some extension of Williamsburg? Who cares.
It’s all gentrified North Brooklyn to me. One thing I’ve learned about asking
directions in Brooklyn—don’t do it. Even
the locals can’t give you a straight answer for “excuse me, how do I get from
point A to point B?”
I
forget the name of the dive. All I know
is that someone’s got Tom Waits on heavy rotation tonight. I’m too shitfaced to make out the
lyrics. But I recognize that voice
anywhere. Sounds like Cookie Monster on
Ketamine.
She gave me a handjob under the table. Lucky me, I can keep a straight face, because
damn that felt gooood. But I was more
interested in my Jack Daniels Sour than I was in the conversation we were
having.
How
will I get home? Honey, I’ve found my
way home on larger quantities of alcohol and with a further commute. A short L-train (assuming it’s functioning
tonight) to 8th St. and then an A-train to Hamilton Heights—been
there, smoked that. Don’t worry about
me, I’m alright.
No,
seriously. You don’t need to call me a
cab. I got this monthly Metrocard, and I
plan on squeezing every nickel out of it.
I’m good, I promise.
I mean
seriously. Other than the fact that she
flashed me her tits, what does she have going for her anyway? Not a whole lot. But it’s not like I have much going for me
either. I look like shit tonight; I look
like I just crawled out of bed (which I did); and I pretty much couldn’t get
laid in a brothel with a suitcase full of money. So yeah, if you can’t be with the one you
love, love the one you’re with; I have no one I love, so this is as close as I will
get.
Act
10:30pm (mezzo piano)
“What
does it all mean?”
I don’t
know where he came from. I don’t
remember him sidling up to me. If I
could choose any random bar patron to sit down next to me, he’d probably be one
of my last choices.
He
had a heavy pink face, like one of them old portrayals of Paul Bunyan from
those picture books I used to love when I was a kid. His hair was some grizzly mahogany that
clashed with his orangish beard. And for
fuck’s sake, he was wearing coveralls and a red flannel shirt. Who dresses him in the morning?
What does it all mean? He asked.
So I answered the only way I knew how to answer.
“What
does what all mean?”
“You
know, it! What does it all mean?”
Oh
shit, there’s only one thing worse than a sentimental philosopher; and that is
a sentimental philosopher on alcohol. And he just had to plop himself next to me, a
simple man who doesn’t even know what he’s doing in one hour, let in this
incarnation.
So I
gave him the most honest answer I could provide given the circumstances: “Nothing,” I spat as I took another swig of
my Moscow Mule.
Unflinchingly,
he took a swig of whatever that bright red thing in a highball glass was. I’m afraid to even ask what he ordered.
“You
never wondered why you are here?”
“Nope.” And that was the truth. Truth be told, I couldn’t even tell you why I
got out of bed this morning.
“What
if I told you I know the secret: life, the universe, and the meaning of it all?”
“Will
it help me pay my rent this month?” I
asked
“Rent? What I’m going to tell you will last longer
than your rent money and make you feel more fulfilled than you ever have in
your life!”
“Do
me a favor and please tell my landlord how frivolous my rent money is. If he doesn’t evict me for that, I’ll buy you
another round of whatever that shit you’re drinking is.”
“Cosmo
on the rocks. But that’s not
important. What I’m about to sell you
will change your life forever.”
Um,
no. I’m not taking advice from a man
whose choice in potent potables comes from the Carrie Bradshaw School of Being
an Insufferable Bourgeoisie Nag.
I just twitched
and said “well, I’ve already lived three different lives in 37 years. So I’m pretty sure there’s almost nothing you
can say to change my life forever.”
He
took another quick sip of his Cosmo.
“But
I already have changed your life. Look
behind you.”
The
interior had changed.
I was
no longer in the dusty dive bar.
Maybe
he slipped something in my drink. Or
maybe the room was more colorful than I remembered it being.
And
who replaced Tom Waits’ voice with Enrico Macias?
To
be continued.
