Friday, April 23, 2010

Friday Tries Too Hard

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.
Legally speaking.
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.
It's over.
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."

Thursday, April 22, 2010

doom beckons from around the corner

Walks out the door; still smiling, smelling of her. cigarettes and perfume. Still can do no wrong.

Still smiling, blasting that October song like a soundtrack on the breeze, down the street, hoping it creeps in through her window for a second. (moron teenage misfit)

Driving, still smiling, shaking off the sleeplessness and alcohol grip you find yourself in, hoping for a minute of invincibility.
Sleep- after the adrenaline dies and soft goodbyes. Dragging out digital volleys just to see if you can still stand me.

Still smiling.
Soul slowly sinking. Not sure why.
Fast forward to the end in my head of a girl filled with sympathy/regret but bored to death. of me.

Still smiling while doom sings it's siren song just around the bend.
And hope she's still smiling when you talk to her again.

Monday, April 19, 2010

The Long Forgotten Prom Queen of Ridgewood High Class of '79

Another new, Sunday morning stare down with that old judgemental sun burning back at me like it's asking "what are you doing up so early?"
But I'm not alone standing on the platform while I wait for a train to drag me away from the same old stupid suburb and slither down the coast line.
First there's a nice, young couple dressed in perfectly neat jogging gear, surely on their way to do nice, young things. For a minute I wonder what I could have done differently to end up looking so nice and fresh on a Sunday morning instead of an unkempt mess who looks like he just crawled out of an ashtray.
Then a group of Mexicans ride up on their bicycles. They're laughing and rapidly shooting insults in Spanish at each other. I start wondering if it's racist to think that they're probably going to work. Then I feel like a shit because they probably are going to work while a brat like me is just trying to get home to sleep off the contamination of the night before.
Then a few small groups of people in black coats and baseball caps start filling up the scenery.
But there's one woman who sticks out in the forefront of the shot. You can tell she's pretty but she looks like she's been losing rounds against time. She's decked out in a short brown dress with black stockings, peppered with runs and a stray hole, that go all the way down to a worn looking pair of black leather boots that were probably expensive when they still had a tag on them. She's shivering a little and bringing her long painted fingertips to her fading red lips to take a drag off her cigarette. I make a bet with myself that it's menthol, I don't' know why. Then she runs the other hand through her black/grayish Brillo hair and flips on a pair of dark glasses that seem to cover half her face.
So the joke is that I may look the mess, hair tossed in ten directions, clothes wrinkled, and of course the stale taste in my mouth of a few drinks the night before. But otherwise I feel fine. I feel good. For once I'm waiting for an AM weekend train without any hangover or lingering doubts about things I might have done or said the night before. No frantic scrolls through the SENT MESSAGES menu on the phone to make sure I didn't accidentally end a friendship or scare off a girl. Nope, my conscience is clear.
Don't know about hers.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Drowning in the Atlantic (DeadFlowersPractice)

"So what's her name again?"
"Anne," I answered flatly.
"Anne Kennedy?" Calvin sprung up.
"Yes, it's Anne Kennedy, the girl you took the prom ten years ago who moved to Nebraska with her girlfriend, she came back and now works as a hostess at the diner, is somehow, miraculously three years younger than she was when she left, is straight now, and I'm trying to get a date with her, but I didn't bring up the fact that we went to school together for nine years because I figured it would freak her out."
"Oh yeah she moved."
"Yeah she's gone."
It was late and I was tired. I was always fucking tired.
Calvin couldn't sleep and he wanted to talk.
He was smoking and the blue plumes of smoke made their way over to me and all I could think about it how much I missed cigarettes.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Yeah, look I don't really want to talk about this because I'm going to think about it, over-analyze it, or it's going to sound stupid out-loud or whatever and I'm going to get embarrassed, so can we please just leave it alone?" I pleaded.
"Well I just want to ask one question," Calvin pleaded back.
"Fine, what?"
"I mean is this like something you just are thinking about doing, like asking her out or does it seem like she's into you?"
"Um," I had to stop and think about that for a minute. There's something to be said for living in your own little bubble where the only questions that surface are ones born of your own neurosis, "I don't know, man, can't we just drop this? What's going on with you? How do we always end up on me?"
"Well let me just ask you this.."
"No, no more just asking me this, let's just change the subject."
"Did you get her number?"
At this point I realized there was no point in arguing with him and the only defense I could think of was to be completely childish: "Well let's just say I'll never kiss a gun street girl again."
"The minister's daughter's in love with a snake."
"What does that mean?"
"I'm just going to talk in lyrics until you change the subject."
Calvin retreated back to his cigarette and a creepy grin crawled across his stubbly face, 'Hey buddy, it's gonna be alright."
It was then that I came to the conclusion that from here on in I will only deal with people I know after first achieving a proper buzz.