Hopping a river of green I jumped into my car trying not to think what composed the sludgy gutter brook, though the clogged sidewalks offered hints aplenty. From spilled beer to puke to tears, the annual St. Patty’s run off had begun. Glancing at the clock in the dash, a bit passed noon, I cocked an eyebrow. People seemed to have started later this year.
I chalked it up to St. Patrick’s falling on a weekday, and started the car. A shirtless man in lime green boxers fell on the hood of my car. Laughing, he pointed at a fresh tattoo on his chest. It read, “Kiss me I’m shitfaced.” I shifted into gear, and pulled away from the curb, the cheers of holiday drunks carrying me off. The man sat up on the hood. He waved to pedestrians who hollered back unintelligible joyous hoots. We cruised along peacefully navigating the green strangled streets like the cheapest parade float ever until I sped up, and he realized I intended to get on the highway.
He smacked the windshield. I turned on my wipers to slap his hands away. He shouted. I pressed the pedal to the floor. As I accelerated along the on ramp he flopped off the hood. I didn’t check to see how he fell. If he made out okay didn’t matter to me. I had places to be.
#
Barbara Kelly lifted a pint. Balancing it on her head she closed one eye then took aim. I stood still as a statute, an unlit cigarette protruding from my lips. With a graceful flick of the wrist Barbara tossed a dart. The tiny javelin speared the coffin nail, securing it to the bull’s eye in the dart board. Everyone in Mr. G’s let out a triumphant holler save for Danny Portomaso and his crew. His buddy, Joey Bag-o-Donuts, handed Barb a roll of twenties. Still balancing the pint she curtsied then snatched the glass off and chugged it down.
Throwing the cash in the air she shouted through the rain, “Who’s getting cunted?”
A collective cry declared that everyone inside certainly would. The money shower made its way to the bar, where Jordan surreptitiously counted the lot. Finding enough for a round all around, he poured shots of whiskey for the room.
Making my way to Barb I said, “Well done, but the first landed right under my eye.”
She shrugged, “That was the plan.”
“The plan was to hit me in the cheek, not near blind me.”
She shook her head, “There’s no way I’d put out one of those blue beauties.” I opened my mouth to suggest otherwise, but the cougar cut me off, “And you’d look good with an eye patch.”
Gathering shots for us I replied, “Of course I would, but that’s not the point.”
Barb sighed, “The point is ya on yer fuckin’ period, is that it?”
Raising my shot to her, “Touché.” And we drank.
She yipped then said, “You’ve been in a mood since you got here.”
“Before I got here. Had to go in the city for a bit. The holiday drunks, they get on my nerves.”
Barb lit a cigarette, “Fuck ‘em. The day doesn’t belong to the loos showing up once a year.”
As if on cue a brigade of roaring drunks in green plastic bowlers charged into Mr. G’s. Several regulars groaned at the arrivals. Jordan immediately apologized for having forgotten to turn off the neon shamrock in the window. Demands for whiskey and car bombs soon filled the establishment. Two girls looking like Emerald city hookers giggled over to the jukebox. Pop music soon thundered from the speakers. The men they came with complained about the lack of green beer, and I started to wonder if my gun was at home or in the trunk of my car.
Patting my back Barb said, “Don’t be so glum, ya judgmental li’l bitch. You used to be not much better.”
“How dare you?” Taken aback I slapped her hand.
She flicked her cigarette at me, the cherry exploding between my eyes. She nodded, “Yeah. See what happens?”
Point taken I said, “Doesn’t change the fact I was never like…” I pointed at three green Seussian top hats gagging on thimbles of whiskey, “Like that.”
Barb bobbed her head side to side, “Maybe not like that, but oh how quickly we forget.” She shifted to lean, an elbow on the bar, drink in one hand, and words aimed at me, “They’re just having fun. You used to. You should try to again. You’re so glum lately I keep thinkin’, ‘If only he had a dick worth looking at I’d suck a smile on his face.’” Seeing a grin crack my gob she said, “That’s the spirit. Now come on, I’m pretty sure we can squeeze more money out of that fat I-talian.”
Firing my drink I joined her quest. Pool sharks pack hunting – we went after Joey’s wallet. Granted, it’s not really hustling when everyone knows everyone; however, honesty doesn’t make anybody a guaranteed winner either. And the chance to beat a skilled opponent right out in the open, that’s better bait than cash.
Barb did the most damage, murdering with masse shots, but I landed some life threatening blows. We could’ve walked away three hundred bucks a piece, but Barb insisted we “lose” a bit back. She claimed it would lure Joey back for future bleedings. Still, 185 is nothing to sneer at.
While we shot pool the irregulars cycled in and out. They came in giddy, left staggering, and I doubt I ever saw one frown. They sang, they danced, they drank themselves silly; and I started to remember once upon a time too many years ago when having fun seemed to be that easy. Stepping into Mr. G’s (or most any bar for that matter) my problems waited outside. A shot of whiskey hushed the voices in my head ranting about work woes, feeling lovelorn, or any of the myriad hobgoblins creeping through thoughts sabotaging every attempt at being happy. I always knew the problems lurked on the other side of a hang over, but for a few hours I could get peace of mind before coming back to the fight. Then one day a goblin sat down on the stool next to me. Before I knew it I’m buying a pint for myself, and the horde of hobgoblins following me in.
Barb slapped my ass, “Well kid, thanks for not sucking taint.”
“You’re welcome.”
She laughed, “When you’re not thinking you’re a lot of fun to be around.”
“Thanks?”
She grabbed me by the head, pulled me over, and planted a loud smacking kiss on my cheek, “Enjoy yourself.”
She headed off. I saw her out to the parking lot. Lighting a cigarette I watched Barb get on her motorcycle. As she rode off, the cougar queen roared by giving me the finger with a smile. Couldn’t help remembering something she once said, “Cancer killed my husband before I got a chance to. He always was a lucky fucker. Doubt it if you want, but he married me.” A tear in her eye emphasizing instead of belying the point.
No one’s immune to a bad day.
When I went back inside I looked down the bar. Regulars mostly gone, the bar filling again with holiday amateurs I took out my wad of cash. A goblin leered from a nearby barstool. It held a crumpled bill in one claw. Winking at Jordan I tossed the money in the air, “Who’s getting cunted?”
The crowd cheered.
Someone shouted, “Grom uh gree nuh grish-knee – I forget the rest.” Then passed out, thumping his head off the bar on the way to the floor. His friends carried him out, depositing him in the back of a minivan before hurrying back inside. A young woman squeed at the top of her lungs then started dancing alone, the music in her head better than anything the jukebox could provide. Two guys, clearly fourteen, made pledges over pints regarding the zombie apocalypse should it ever occur:
“We’ll kill yer neighbor, and take all his guns then just like fucking bam bam fucking kill zombies all day.”
“All day?”
“All day!”
“It’s gonna be awesome.”
“Yeah it is. Shit. I love you man.”
“No! I was gonna say it first.”
As Jordan poured a mile of shots the jukebox kicked up a tune by The Rumjacks. Those who knew the song started singing along, myself included. Drinks made their way to hands and down throats. The hours slipped away. Everything is fleeting, but not everything is a good time.
I chalked it up to St. Patrick’s falling on a weekday, and started the car. A shirtless man in lime green boxers fell on the hood of my car. Laughing, he pointed at a fresh tattoo on his chest. It read, “Kiss me I’m shitfaced.” I shifted into gear, and pulled away from the curb, the cheers of holiday drunks carrying me off. The man sat up on the hood. He waved to pedestrians who hollered back unintelligible joyous hoots. We cruised along peacefully navigating the green strangled streets like the cheapest parade float ever until I sped up, and he realized I intended to get on the highway.
He smacked the windshield. I turned on my wipers to slap his hands away. He shouted. I pressed the pedal to the floor. As I accelerated along the on ramp he flopped off the hood. I didn’t check to see how he fell. If he made out okay didn’t matter to me. I had places to be.
#
Barbara Kelly lifted a pint. Balancing it on her head she closed one eye then took aim. I stood still as a statute, an unlit cigarette protruding from my lips. With a graceful flick of the wrist Barbara tossed a dart. The tiny javelin speared the coffin nail, securing it to the bull’s eye in the dart board. Everyone in Mr. G’s let out a triumphant holler save for Danny Portomaso and his crew. His buddy, Joey Bag-o-Donuts, handed Barb a roll of twenties. Still balancing the pint she curtsied then snatched the glass off and chugged it down.
Throwing the cash in the air she shouted through the rain, “Who’s getting cunted?”
A collective cry declared that everyone inside certainly would. The money shower made its way to the bar, where Jordan surreptitiously counted the lot. Finding enough for a round all around, he poured shots of whiskey for the room.
Making my way to Barb I said, “Well done, but the first landed right under my eye.”
She shrugged, “That was the plan.”
“The plan was to hit me in the cheek, not near blind me.”
She shook her head, “There’s no way I’d put out one of those blue beauties.” I opened my mouth to suggest otherwise, but the cougar cut me off, “And you’d look good with an eye patch.”
Gathering shots for us I replied, “Of course I would, but that’s not the point.”
Barb sighed, “The point is ya on yer fuckin’ period, is that it?”
Raising my shot to her, “Touché.” And we drank.
She yipped then said, “You’ve been in a mood since you got here.”
“Before I got here. Had to go in the city for a bit. The holiday drunks, they get on my nerves.”
Barb lit a cigarette, “Fuck ‘em. The day doesn’t belong to the loos showing up once a year.”
As if on cue a brigade of roaring drunks in green plastic bowlers charged into Mr. G’s. Several regulars groaned at the arrivals. Jordan immediately apologized for having forgotten to turn off the neon shamrock in the window. Demands for whiskey and car bombs soon filled the establishment. Two girls looking like Emerald city hookers giggled over to the jukebox. Pop music soon thundered from the speakers. The men they came with complained about the lack of green beer, and I started to wonder if my gun was at home or in the trunk of my car.
Patting my back Barb said, “Don’t be so glum, ya judgmental li’l bitch. You used to be not much better.”
“How dare you?” Taken aback I slapped her hand.
She flicked her cigarette at me, the cherry exploding between my eyes. She nodded, “Yeah. See what happens?”
Point taken I said, “Doesn’t change the fact I was never like…” I pointed at three green Seussian top hats gagging on thimbles of whiskey, “Like that.”
Barb bobbed her head side to side, “Maybe not like that, but oh how quickly we forget.” She shifted to lean, an elbow on the bar, drink in one hand, and words aimed at me, “They’re just having fun. You used to. You should try to again. You’re so glum lately I keep thinkin’, ‘If only he had a dick worth looking at I’d suck a smile on his face.’” Seeing a grin crack my gob she said, “That’s the spirit. Now come on, I’m pretty sure we can squeeze more money out of that fat I-talian.”
Firing my drink I joined her quest. Pool sharks pack hunting – we went after Joey’s wallet. Granted, it’s not really hustling when everyone knows everyone; however, honesty doesn’t make anybody a guaranteed winner either. And the chance to beat a skilled opponent right out in the open, that’s better bait than cash.
Barb did the most damage, murdering with masse shots, but I landed some life threatening blows. We could’ve walked away three hundred bucks a piece, but Barb insisted we “lose” a bit back. She claimed it would lure Joey back for future bleedings. Still, 185 is nothing to sneer at.
While we shot pool the irregulars cycled in and out. They came in giddy, left staggering, and I doubt I ever saw one frown. They sang, they danced, they drank themselves silly; and I started to remember once upon a time too many years ago when having fun seemed to be that easy. Stepping into Mr. G’s (or most any bar for that matter) my problems waited outside. A shot of whiskey hushed the voices in my head ranting about work woes, feeling lovelorn, or any of the myriad hobgoblins creeping through thoughts sabotaging every attempt at being happy. I always knew the problems lurked on the other side of a hang over, but for a few hours I could get peace of mind before coming back to the fight. Then one day a goblin sat down on the stool next to me. Before I knew it I’m buying a pint for myself, and the horde of hobgoblins following me in.
Barb slapped my ass, “Well kid, thanks for not sucking taint.”
“You’re welcome.”
She laughed, “When you’re not thinking you’re a lot of fun to be around.”
“Thanks?”
She grabbed me by the head, pulled me over, and planted a loud smacking kiss on my cheek, “Enjoy yourself.”
She headed off. I saw her out to the parking lot. Lighting a cigarette I watched Barb get on her motorcycle. As she rode off, the cougar queen roared by giving me the finger with a smile. Couldn’t help remembering something she once said, “Cancer killed my husband before I got a chance to. He always was a lucky fucker. Doubt it if you want, but he married me.” A tear in her eye emphasizing instead of belying the point.
No one’s immune to a bad day.
When I went back inside I looked down the bar. Regulars mostly gone, the bar filling again with holiday amateurs I took out my wad of cash. A goblin leered from a nearby barstool. It held a crumpled bill in one claw. Winking at Jordan I tossed the money in the air, “Who’s getting cunted?”
The crowd cheered.
Someone shouted, “Grom uh gree nuh grish-knee – I forget the rest.” Then passed out, thumping his head off the bar on the way to the floor. His friends carried him out, depositing him in the back of a minivan before hurrying back inside. A young woman squeed at the top of her lungs then started dancing alone, the music in her head better than anything the jukebox could provide. Two guys, clearly fourteen, made pledges over pints regarding the zombie apocalypse should it ever occur:
“We’ll kill yer neighbor, and take all his guns then just like fucking bam bam fucking kill zombies all day.”
“All day?”
“All day!”
“It’s gonna be awesome.”
“Yeah it is. Shit. I love you man.”
“No! I was gonna say it first.”
As Jordan poured a mile of shots the jukebox kicked up a tune by The Rumjacks. Those who knew the song started singing along, myself included. Drinks made their way to hands and down throats. The hours slipped away. Everything is fleeting, but not everything is a good time.
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