Austin Stores vol. 1

"Ok then, that sounds fair, take em."

I hand my keys to the bartender. I chug the glass of merlot I was promised if I peacefully gave him my keys. That done, I head for the door.

"Where you going," asks the bartender.

"Gonna grab a smoke, brb."

"Ok."

I walk out of the comedy club. Stumble a bit. Eric's outside smoking. The first time I saw Eric I thought he was a bit too pretty. Fresh faced, clean shaven, glint of hope in his eyes, but the years have taken that away from him. Thank god

I stare at Eric and give a shrug.

"They take your keys there buddy," Eric asks.

 "Yep, sure enough did."

"Here." Eric reaches into his pocket and tosses me my extra set of keys I gave to him earlier in the evening.

"Thanks a pants load," I say.

Professional drinkers you ask? Yep. Always a spare set.

"Well," I say, "I gonna head downtown, you need your keys?"

"I'm good actually, some friends are meeting me here in a little while. Go have fun."

"Can I have another," I ask, motioning towards the bulge in his jacket pocket. Eric pulls the flask out of his jacket. I unscrew the top. Take a pull. Hand the flask back to him.

"Go get em tiger," says Eric.

We exchange nods. I get in the car and drive.

I drive drunk to meet my friend on 6th street. I drive drunk to get more drunk. I drink and drive, I drink and drink. And yet, somehow, people still love me.

 "Yeah, she's got bigger fish to enjoy," I say to myself at a red-light. I don't really mean it. I knew what I was getting into and I'm completely happy for every moment we shared. And who's to say what's what? It's a Sunday night, I'm drinking. Seven days of the week. Seven deadly sins. Coincidence? Or Convenient?

I've never read the bible. Jesus never read the bible. He did alright I suppose.

Red-light
Green-light
Interstate.
Parking spot
6th street.

I flash my new drivers license to the door guy. This new license looks more like me. The old one looks like the guy that went to college and had plans to make six figures after graduation. I looked so different then. I like my new license.

The door guy nods me in. I try to get up to the second floor of the bar, but it's over capacity. I wait. I'm getting good at that.
I'm good at drinking. Still waiting.

 Red-light,
Green-light.

***

It's top shelf Sunday at this bar. All liquor, same price. Top shelf is the same price as bottom shelf. I'll stick with the bottom though, I won't abandon my friends. The ones that are with me when I only have a few dollars in my pocket.

I stare at the liquor selection at the bar.

"Hello Popov Vodka," I say.

And then Popov Vodka says, he says, "Once a week the pretty bottles come down from their ivory tower, their box seats, and they slum it up with us."

The Popov bottle spits, "Such filth. They use us for their entertainment."

Popov is a mysterious and gentle bottle.

And I ask Popov, "Will you marry me?"

And Popov shifts the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, and says, "I don't know, I guess we'll have to find out."

***

Buttercup taps me on the shoulder and hands me three dollars.

Bartender asks me, "what do you want?"

"Whatever it was that made Milwaukee famous."

He nods.

I tell Buttercup, "I'm thinking about quitting drinking for a while."

"You think you're better than me," she asks.

The bartender hands me my drink.

 "No, I'm just tired of exploiting my stupidity." I put a beer to my lips and raise my eyebrows, "I want to prove I don't need alcohol to be a failure."

"Cool," nodding her head. "I hate this place."

"Yep."

This bar wasn't my choice. I'm surrounded by men that are all taller than me and smell much nicer. There's enough body spray to choke a small child, and I'm thinking--too bad I didn't bring a small child.

I stare at Buttercup when she's not looking. There's a connection there. There's a connection, but the cord is frayed and the wires are exposed. We have a past. If we flew on a plane together I could store her in the overhead because she technically qualifies as baggage.

She looks at me. I look away. She looks away. I'm in love with her. Deal with it. Anyways. Hanzel and Gretyl had bread crumbs. Some people seem to use broken hearts.

It's ok. I'm unhappy most days anyways. With or with out her.

She kept trying to make me feel better but I kept shooting down her arguments. I think if you play around too long with something you either get really good at it or you just waste time. That's me and pessimism. Like chess, you sit across from me, I'm depression and you're happiness. I play black, you play white. I know all the openings. I know all the traps. I know I know. Until someone comes along and schools me with happiness I'll continue to hustle with the black.

***

We're in my car. I'm driving her to her car because she's afraid to walk to by herself at this hour. Conversation.
"Remember when we went camping," I ask her.

She nods. I continue.

"I was following you. We were driving down 22. Going east. Before I took a right on 6 to Waco. We passed the picnic rest stop."

"The one we ate our donuts and murky coffee," she asks. "Yeah."

"The one with all the lady bugs," I add this important detail. "Anyway. Did you see the four motorcycles parked there?"

She nods. I continue

"Four tough looking dudes sitting at the same table we had sat at a few hours before. I had a thought. In my head of all places."

I pull the car over next to hers and continue to talk.

"Biker one, Bulldog, was talking to his friends, Stinkfinger, Mudflap, and Chris. Bulldog was telling them, 'I'm on the run from Waco. I laid all the women. I hustled all the pool. I won all the fights. The law came after me, so I...wait...what the hell just bit me?' And they all look down at his arm. Bulldog continues. 'Ah a lady bug...take that.' And Bulldog swipes at it with an arrogant hand. And his friends chuckle...And then a loud buzzing. The sky goes black with ladybugs. And they were never seen again."

"Cool," she says. "Dinner tomorrow?"

***

I dream of a crucifix with the sign--"out to lunch"--tacked on it. And I wake up with the theme from M*A*S*H stuck in my head. I walk to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Man, what happened to my face? Age and beauty are married and sometimes its a great relationship and sometimes it's an abusive one. I pull a long black hair out of my black beard. What happened there?

Clothes on. Spend a few hours ignoring the nice day. Grab my keys.

I'm driving in the car surveying random objects. A picture of a friend on the floor of my car. I'm pretty sure there's dried semen on the back of that picture. That, or it's dried snot. Neither snot or semen would be out of the question. Most bodily fluids don't age well outside the body.

I see an 80-year-old man pulling himself down the street in a wheel chair using his one good leg. Two wheels forward. One wheel backwards. He's still moving why shouldn't I? Most people don't age well outside the womb.

I think about the footprints poem with that guy Jesus. I wonder if the Mormons have a poem called bicycle prints. I don't pray often. I'm not religious. I can't say that I am, but believing in something else is easier than believing in yourself sometimes. I don't really know what I believe. I don't even know what I want for lunch most days.

Red light.

I see a homeless man asking for a dollar so he can buy fuel for his jet. I ask him if I can have a tampon for my vagina. He laughs. A mouthful of yellow teeth. I hand him 92 cents. I tell him that I hope he gets his jet running again. That's the fifth time he's heard that today but he treats it like the first.

My life's been on hold for a while. This is what it's been like since we broke up. I fell in love with a girl and all I wanted was the best for her and all she wanted was the best for me. We never ended up together so I never got what she wanted but I hope she gets what I want. I'd rather deal with regret than uncertainty because I know that regret will be a mutual acquaintance of ours. I'll always feel close to her because of that.

***

"Dinner sounds good," she said.

***

And I'm talking first here.

"First of all, if you're pro-life, that's probably just because you haven't met the right guy yet. And if you're having sex at the age of twelve it's probably not consentual or it's with an animal."

"Or you might be a redneck," she laughs.

The clank of forks on ceramic plates.

"What do you do," I ask. This is a game we play. It's called first date.

"I put tit-smudges on brass poles to pay the bills and feed my son," she answers.
I nod an approving nod.

"What about you," she asks, "What did you do before comedy?"

"Honestly," I hesitate, thinking of a good lie, "I made stuffed animals using donated belly button lint."

"That's a new one."

"We had a series of teddy bears that were stuffed with celebrity belly button lint. Sandra Bullock. Owen Wilson. One of the bears fetched 500 dollars. Of course all the money went to charity."

"Which one," she asks.

"Does it matter," I respond.

"Yeah, right," she mulls. "Tell me something else about yourself? How much sex do you require?"

"I don't know," I shrug and take a sip off my beer, "I guess--enough to keep my mind off of it and on to more important things."

"That's a shit answer," she shifts her gaze from my face to a handsome gentleman sitting across from our table.

"That's the answer you get."

"You're the son of a mother fucker," says she.

"Jesus had a crown of thorns, I have you," says I.

I smile. She smiles.

I pull a cigarette out of the pack. I drop my lighter. Pick it up. Drop it again.

"You're a funny drinker," she acknowledges. "Is this you're first time to drink?...It's cute?"

"You're a mean sober," I accuse. "I'm not an angry drunk. No violence. I'm just sloppy and happy. Uncoordinated."

"Yeah, I noticed," she says while shaking her head.

"I can't drink this," I say pointing to the half pint of beer in my glass.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she grabs her purse. "I'll be right back. Drink the beer before I get back."

She walks to the bathroom. A few minutes pass. She comes back and much like her bladder my glass is empty.

"Good job," she begins to say, then notices the quarters worth of beer in her once empty glass. She shakes her head for a second time tonight, then drains the contents of the glass. No food tonight. A full bladder or an empty stomach. I'll probably wake up to one of those in the morning.

She sees the wheels turning in my head. "You're not going to write about this?"

"If I did write about this you'd have to be the man in the story and I'd be the woman."

My voice cracks at the word woman to really drive that point home.

Most of my days are spent avoiding the late hours by myself. This fear of being alone has led to some bad choices. A warm shoulder to rest your head on in the early hours of the morning works better than any glass of warm milk or soft pillow.

The mind wanders like a dog excited by the smells of the day. When left to my thoughts I find parts of myself I didn't know existed. The good thing about being an insomniac is that you can't cry yourself to sleep. I guess.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking - " There's no breaking news. The fires still burn. Violence in Iraq. You have to have education to have school shootings. And the herd thins like my fathers hair. My hands will weaken, my face will wrinkle. My eyes will close. And someone who loves me will say a few words about this life. I want to park in a handicapped spot and eat meat at a vegan party and eat vegetables at a steak house. Some shit like that.

"What are you thinking about," she asks again.

"I want some pancakes," I tell her. "The goals in life change. I want a job. I want a wife and kids and a home." I take a drag from the cigarette. "And In the end I think it just whittles down to please God don't let me crap my pants while the priest reads me my last rites."

A half smile upon her face, "I just want a job where I don't have to hear a grown man say 'work it girl'."

I nod. She nods back.

The night fades away.

They do that don't they?

I smell her on my clothes when I get home.

Then I sleep.

I'm sure there's more to this story, but this the part I wanted to share with you.


Originally posted by Lucas Molandes at 2:23 PM
Saturday, April 26, 2008