The story of a yong man, his drink, a woman, and his search for an escape from his woman....and his next drink.
I think she was in the ladies bathroom, or playing pool—either way it was a quick chance for me to scope the bar for chicks, and slam a few more drinks. She—Jessie—didn’t like when I drank too much (even though she was a full blown lush herself) she said I couldn’t keep it up long enough, either that or I’d pass out in the middle of the good stuff. Hey, you had to choose sometimes—and if it came down to the same old, same old woman who’d stunk up your bed night after night—and the bottle—the bottle won out every time, and twice on Monday.
Missy the barkeep slid me a draft and a shot of the good stuff (she and Jessie were good friends since Jess was here every night and so was Missy)”this should hold you for a few minutes sweetheart, while I tend to my paying customers” not that I was a bum-she just had a thing for me, to tell you the truth—she had a thing for anybody with a hard on.
As I sipped my stale brew and watched the ball game kept and eye out for Jess, I’m sure she was going down on Mr. Jimmy in the toilet-maybe Mr. and Mrs.—this was her favorite spot to come and get revenge on my dumb ass, to her anybody was better then nobody at all. Some nights I just don’t know how much longer I can deal with her, and all her manic ways—at least the bottle is a release from that--for her, not me—the more I drink the crazier she becomes, it’s just that when drunk, I don’t care.
By now, the baseball game had long begun to loss my interest—I mean, who cares about the Tigers and the Royals. At one time these to fine organizations had been on top of the baseball kingdom, but the baseball kingdom—was soon to be shutdown—plus the Royals had no pitching and the Tigers staff would be lucky to compete in AAA ball. Missy made her way back to me with a fresh brew and another shot of the good stuff. “You read my slowly deteriorating mind baby”
“What I’m here for honey” she winked and headed back to slinging brew for the overpaid underdeveloped suit monkeys that frequented this dive bar in the middle of yuppie Ville Dallas.
I didn’t much care, when the suit monkeys had too much to drink,and started strutting around the bar like they were Rourke or Madsen. Usually there were enough of us barfly's here to quickly sober 'em up--they'd make a quick 180 for the door and head across the street to the much “hipper” ‘Station Bar’ I’d have a few beers there every now in then when I was trying to mix things up a bit, but Jessie didn’t like the women there—to much competition.
At this time very night I would begin to grow restless with all going’s on at my favorite dive bar, and my mind (and legs) would yearn for the hip, smooth, upbeat rhythms of the Bop Jazz at the much newer, and hipper Subterraneans bar next door. Finish my beer, leave a tip—and sneak out the front door—that was my routine just about every night when I was there with Jessie. She hated that fucking Subterraneans bar, once again—too much competition on the female side of things. Oh well--off again.
The place was much—-how do you put it, cooooler then the Winegrove, a much deeper type of cat hung here, it was dark, smoky and the coolest bebopedy bop and blues blew from the stage in front. The drinks were much stiffer—the chicks much looser—no wonder Jess would rip my balls off if she caught me in here—stiff drinks, loose women, a few minutes in heaven.
I set at the bar two fist-ed (as usual) sipping my scotch and gulping my brew, trying to stave off my future, a future with a lush bitch with hair on her nipples and vodka in her cunt, damn how I hated her—well, hate’s a harsh word—It was just that she made me wanna be a worse man—a bad boy, she drove a wedge of rum and vodka between me and my family. That’s why sitting at this bar trying to do my best Jim Morrison only worked ‘till I pissed the booze away—couldn’t keep it in my veins long enough to counteract the effect she had on me. Well, at least this is a slow death.
Ray the bass player set down next to me at the bar and ordered “two jack’s strait up, no ice” I remember this ‘cause strait up means no ice, oh well couldn’t fault him, he could strum a mean bass. I finished my beer and left.
My dad would take me to the record store, ‘Apple’s Records and Tapes’ it was called—he’d tell me when we entered the store “now Jake, I’m going to look for some new records, I’ll come and find you when I’m done.” I was scared shitless, and excited all at the same time—I think that’s what my dad was trying to accomplish with me, to extremes, so I’d be able to deal with life later on. I’ve spent my entire life living in the extremes, that’s why I drink, that’s why I get in fights, that’s why I write poetry—to exist in the extremes—suicide is an extreme, so is my Dad. I’d be standing there for 45 minutes with a Kiss record in my hands hoping, praying my dad would ask me if I wanted him to buy it for him, a six year old boy afraid to ask is good ol’ pop to buy him a 5 dollar Kiss album. Talk about extremes. That’s they same damn way Jessie made me feel when we drank to much, when I snuck out to hear some jazz, that morning I was driving all around White Rock Lake sober waiting for her to come home from screwing Rick.
The glass hit the left side of my cheek and splashed beer all over my face and shirt ”Asshole! You fucking, cheating, drunk asshole!” a crowed gathered around as the volume level sunk a few notches—we were tonight’s temporary entertainment, I couldn’t help but laugh, “What the fuck is funny!” laughter just poured out, I set down on the pool table and took a swig from some poor soul’s brew.
“ You’re drunk—-let’s go home”
“Prick” everyone went back to drinking and whatever else it is they do, Jesse went back to the bar to do what it is she does—drink-- I finished the beer, lit a smoke, and walked out the back door.