So I was already pissed off by the time I walked into the place and saw this rust colored Wayne Newton clone sipping what I had to guess was an apple martini and cackling a fingernail/blackboard death-shriek of a laugh while sitting in my usual spot.
Well, I don't really come in that much to really claim it as "my spot" but the three or four times I've been in here that's where I sat so to me it's my spot.
I let it go and find a spot in the corner booth where I have little doubt the waitress will not visit frequently enough to keep up with my pace.
The bar was about half full, it was late, I guess, I kind of expected the lights to come up at any minute. but the band was still playing.
The band was called Back to the Future, and I instantly hated them for sullying my fond memories of their namesake while they pumped out ironic, punked-up covers of "Walk Like an Egyptian".
Wayne Newton and his date stood up and started dancing cheek to cheek like some old Sinatra song was being sent directly to their heads only.
Paul and Calro slunk into the booth.
I was probably drunk.
I felt safe believing that I was still sober enough to acknowledge that I might be drunk.
I drove over separately from them because I was fairly certain that Carlo was drunk. I did my honorary human duty to try and finagle his keys away but there was no point. He was 14 years older than me and he wasn't going to let me show him up. Of course, the rational thing to do would have probably been to call a cab, but I was out of rational thoughts.
When I pulled in I realized I had a head light out which would pretty much make me a magnet for the hornets nest of hungry officers just waiting to hand out some tickets and throw some one in the clink.
I don't really use words like "clink" unless I'm in a certain mood.
I sat back and reviewed the groin-kick of a day it had been.
From the ice water shooting at me in the shower after the handle fell off to accidentally throwing a red pillow case in with the rest of my laundry morphing my wardrobe into a wonderful cascade of pinks and purples.
Stupid, pithy shit, but enough to annoy you. Enough to make you sling some whiskey and drop $20 in the jukebox on songs you have in your car.
The night is dead.
I'm just hoping one of these two don't suggest going to a diner.
I'm done, just trying to summon enough energy to get up and slip past any road blocks so I can hit my bed hard, wake up and try again tomorrow.
I'm staring an uncomfortably long time at Wayne Newton again.
Don't know why he just seems to be having a good time and I guess I'm envious.
He notices and comes over.
I'm not much of a fighter.
I mean in the wrong head I'll talk shit, but I'm not really a fighter.
But here comes Wayne.
I look around the bar.
It looks like they want it to have a saloon vibe when the lights are turned up. Old barrel tables and wood paneling.
It looks old.
Wayne looks like the sheriff coming over to ask if 'we got any problems here fellers?'
How does he know I won't kick over the table and come out blasting?
I mean I won't, but how does he know that?
"Hey guys how you doing tonight?"
"Good," we all grunt in various levels of audibility (think I just made that word up).
"Mitch Prescott, I own this place. You having a good time?"
"Yeah, a fine time," I answer with as much sincerity as I can muster.
"Look you guys look a little tired, you fellas drive here?"
"Yeah," I looked down shamefully.
"Well how bout this I'll get Joe at the bar over there to call you guys a cab, we're closing up in about ten minutes so it should be here by the then."
I looked at the other two. No one seemed to be inclined to make a decision.
"Sounds good. Thank you. Really like the place by the way, Wayne."
He looks confused but rolls with it, " Oh well thanks, anything else I can help you guys with?"
"Yeah, I think I'd lose this band."