He stood on the porch in a pair of neon green booty shorts. Muffin top spilling out between the shorts, and an orange fishnet tank top, he held the end of a lime colored leash in one hand, a beer can in the other. The leash led down to a sour faced ginger cat.
Cocking an eyebrow he said, “Don’t make me sic my cat on you.”
I replied, “Sorry, didn’t even know I was here.”
“Stop peeing on my house!”
I shrugged, “Better your house than my pants.”
He huffed, “That does it. Get ‘em Jane Russell.”
#
Remy leaned in. I leaned away. He let a low whistle of amazement.
“Damn, yo face a mess.”
“Cat,” I informed.
Nodding, “She a feisty one.”
“No, not her. Like a kitty cat.” I waved to Salmon, signaling for another whiskey. He detached from his conversation, prognosticating the baseball season, to refresh my drink. Meanwhile, Remy pulled out a deck of cards, and started dealing solitaire.
He said, “Shoulda pro-tected yo face.”
“My hands were occupied shielding my dick. It was out at the time.”
Salmon’s face screwed up in confusion, “Why was – actually, forget it. I don’t want to know.”
“Me neither.” Remy moved the ace of spades to the two of hearts then the lot over to the three of clubs. He liked collecting long rows before whittling them down. Some folks claimed he saw certain futures in the cards. I didn’t have reason to doubt such speculations, though I didn’t usually care.
However, on this occasion, I felt the need to ask, “What’s the night looking like?”
His cracked, leathery hands gently moved the Queen of Diamonds, “Same as last year. Sometimes don’t need no cards to know the future. It’s just the past.”
The prospect didn’t sound good to me. The idea of being in a room full of screaming holiday drunks, foaming at the mouth as they drooled green beer; jukebox volume maxed to drown out slurred singing, blasting loud enough to make the windows vibrate; green attire staining the scene in splashes of emerald; someone cackling as their friend fails to say “Irish wristwatch” quickly as if it’s fucking necessary to say… me bursting out of the bathroom screaming, running while wildly swinging a six inch blade, slashing a trail to the exit.
I didn’t really feel like enjoying that repeat. So I finished my drink, paid the bill, and walked home. Along the way I stopped at the local grocery. A giant cartoon Leprechaun stood near the entrance.
The voice bubble read, “This way for all your St. Patrick’s goodies!”
His chubby cardboard digit pointed towards the liquor aisle. Offering fried chicken discounts in February almost got this place closed, but no one gives a pot of piss about casual allusions to Irish alcoholism. So I switched the price sticker from a bottle of cheap garbage juice, and slapped it on a jug of Airgeadlámh – “good enough for the Tuatha dé Danann” – then headed for checkout.
The checkout clerk looked like the poster boy for defeat. He sighed every time he finished scanning products as if a great inescapable shame had been added to his existence.
Heavy sigh, “That’ll be 42.50.”
A giggling baby stopped laughing at the sight of him. He swiped a bouquet flowers. His presence caused them to wilt a bit. By the time I reached him I could feel a pull not unlike a magnet tempting iron filings, the black hole of his melancholy forcing me to slightly dig in my heels, and push away from him.
Sighing, he murmured, “19.16.”
Handing him cash I said, “You know, technically, no one can stop you from killing yourself.”
He shrugged, “I’d rather be murdered. Then people couldn’t get mad at me for dying.”
“Okay. When do you get off work? I’ll gut you in the parking lot.”
His eyes sparkled at the possibility.
The P.A. squawked, “Attention everybody, Mike Gleason just shit his pants. Mike Gleason just shit his pants.”
The sound of a brief struggle then the P.A. went silent. Everyone in the store started laughing, even the melancholy clerk.
Smiling, he looked at me, “So like midnight?”
Dismissive wave, “You’re laughing. There’s still hope for you.”
In the parking lot I opened the Airgeadlámh. Taking a slug from the bottle elicited a disgusted tsk from a passing soccer mom.
I shouted at her, “Mom! It’s me. I’m your son from the future. See what you’ve made me mommy. See what you’ve made!”
She ran inside, and I got the feeling I should hurry home.
#
A few hours later, around sixty-thirty, I glanced at the half empty Airgeadlámh.
It said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we should order pizza.”
“I meant the other thing.”
“Not interested. I mean, catching squirrels just to dye them green – it’s a waste of time. Not to mention the death threats I’ll get from vegans.”
The bottle sighed, “‘And he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.’”
I frowned. I considered smashing the bottle against the wall for flinging Joyce at me, but I first needed to drain its delicious contents; and that meant, since one does not chug ambrosia, finding another container – the whole murder costing more effort than the value of any joy I expected from it. So we sat in silence glaring at one another until I decided I couldn’t be in its judgmental company anymore.
Storming out the front door I marched the blocks to Mr. G’s. The Kelly green clad nightmare population of holiday drunks hollered a cacophony I heard from across the street, their drunken cries echoing off into the night; and I found myself thinking bad company is better than no company at all… until I burst out of the bathroom, a broken bottle in each hand, stabbing my way to the exit.
When I got home I plopped on the couch.
Still on the coffee table, the Airgeadlámh said, “Well, at least now you’ve a better story than staring at the walls drunk.”
Cocking an eyebrow he said, “Don’t make me sic my cat on you.”
I replied, “Sorry, didn’t even know I was here.”
“Stop peeing on my house!”
I shrugged, “Better your house than my pants.”
He huffed, “That does it. Get ‘em Jane Russell.”
#
Remy leaned in. I leaned away. He let a low whistle of amazement.
“Damn, yo face a mess.”
“Cat,” I informed.
Nodding, “She a feisty one.”
“No, not her. Like a kitty cat.” I waved to Salmon, signaling for another whiskey. He detached from his conversation, prognosticating the baseball season, to refresh my drink. Meanwhile, Remy pulled out a deck of cards, and started dealing solitaire.
He said, “Shoulda pro-tected yo face.”
“My hands were occupied shielding my dick. It was out at the time.”
Salmon’s face screwed up in confusion, “Why was – actually, forget it. I don’t want to know.”
“Me neither.” Remy moved the ace of spades to the two of hearts then the lot over to the three of clubs. He liked collecting long rows before whittling them down. Some folks claimed he saw certain futures in the cards. I didn’t have reason to doubt such speculations, though I didn’t usually care.
However, on this occasion, I felt the need to ask, “What’s the night looking like?”
His cracked, leathery hands gently moved the Queen of Diamonds, “Same as last year. Sometimes don’t need no cards to know the future. It’s just the past.”
The prospect didn’t sound good to me. The idea of being in a room full of screaming holiday drunks, foaming at the mouth as they drooled green beer; jukebox volume maxed to drown out slurred singing, blasting loud enough to make the windows vibrate; green attire staining the scene in splashes of emerald; someone cackling as their friend fails to say “Irish wristwatch” quickly as if it’s fucking necessary to say… me bursting out of the bathroom screaming, running while wildly swinging a six inch blade, slashing a trail to the exit.
I didn’t really feel like enjoying that repeat. So I finished my drink, paid the bill, and walked home. Along the way I stopped at the local grocery. A giant cartoon Leprechaun stood near the entrance.
The voice bubble read, “This way for all your St. Patrick’s goodies!”
His chubby cardboard digit pointed towards the liquor aisle. Offering fried chicken discounts in February almost got this place closed, but no one gives a pot of piss about casual allusions to Irish alcoholism. So I switched the price sticker from a bottle of cheap garbage juice, and slapped it on a jug of Airgeadlámh – “good enough for the Tuatha dé Danann” – then headed for checkout.
The checkout clerk looked like the poster boy for defeat. He sighed every time he finished scanning products as if a great inescapable shame had been added to his existence.
Heavy sigh, “That’ll be 42.50.”
A giggling baby stopped laughing at the sight of him. He swiped a bouquet flowers. His presence caused them to wilt a bit. By the time I reached him I could feel a pull not unlike a magnet tempting iron filings, the black hole of his melancholy forcing me to slightly dig in my heels, and push away from him.
Sighing, he murmured, “19.16.”
Handing him cash I said, “You know, technically, no one can stop you from killing yourself.”
He shrugged, “I’d rather be murdered. Then people couldn’t get mad at me for dying.”
“Okay. When do you get off work? I’ll gut you in the parking lot.”
His eyes sparkled at the possibility.
The P.A. squawked, “Attention everybody, Mike Gleason just shit his pants. Mike Gleason just shit his pants.”
The sound of a brief struggle then the P.A. went silent. Everyone in the store started laughing, even the melancholy clerk.
Smiling, he looked at me, “So like midnight?”
Dismissive wave, “You’re laughing. There’s still hope for you.”
In the parking lot I opened the Airgeadlámh. Taking a slug from the bottle elicited a disgusted tsk from a passing soccer mom.
I shouted at her, “Mom! It’s me. I’m your son from the future. See what you’ve made me mommy. See what you’ve made!”
She ran inside, and I got the feeling I should hurry home.
#
A few hours later, around sixty-thirty, I glanced at the half empty Airgeadlámh.
It said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we should order pizza.”
“I meant the other thing.”
“Not interested. I mean, catching squirrels just to dye them green – it’s a waste of time. Not to mention the death threats I’ll get from vegans.”
The bottle sighed, “‘And he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.’”
I frowned. I considered smashing the bottle against the wall for flinging Joyce at me, but I first needed to drain its delicious contents; and that meant, since one does not chug ambrosia, finding another container – the whole murder costing more effort than the value of any joy I expected from it. So we sat in silence glaring at one another until I decided I couldn’t be in its judgmental company anymore.
Storming out the front door I marched the blocks to Mr. G’s. The Kelly green clad nightmare population of holiday drunks hollered a cacophony I heard from across the street, their drunken cries echoing off into the night; and I found myself thinking bad company is better than no company at all… until I burst out of the bathroom, a broken bottle in each hand, stabbing my way to the exit.
When I got home I plopped on the couch.
Still on the coffee table, the Airgeadlámh said, “Well, at least now you’ve a better story than staring at the walls drunk.”
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