  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 fucking 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 bastard 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 fuck 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 fuck 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 fuck 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. 
