| news | | | recent | | | archives | | | dispatches | | | goods | | | contributing | | | about |
by Paul | 21 Mar 2007, 0:00
I was supposed to quit smoking that day. It was a typical Monday. My friend Max and I had plans for that evening to do something...
However, earlier that day I decided I would defer my attempt to quit smoking until the following day. I wanted something special—the kind of cigarettes that would make you truly regret quitting smoking; something that would cost five dollars a pack. I wanted Dunhill cigarettes.
I drove my car to a little independent shop that sold a large variety of cigarettes. The kind that are rarely seen. The store was relatively small. Everything behind a glass counter. I asked the clerk for a pack of Dunhills. He was out. He suggested that I try a pack of Nat Sherman lights. I thought, why not? I was about to purchase my smokes when I noticed something on the corner of the shelf. Bedhis. I asked the clerk if they were good, assuming since he was an Indian he would have an idea what good Bedhis are. "They're my best seller," he said. I grabbed two packs of different flavors the sparked my curiosity: honey and vanilla. I paid for my smokes, we left.
This is the beginning of the story for our two silly protagonists. Naturally, we would never assume what would occur that night.
A new bar had taken over the location our favorite sandwich shop, Charlie's Boardwalk Deli. I pointed at the new bar and said "Want to get a beer? I'll buy." Max shook his head. It made sense. We had known the owner of the deli quite well. We frequented the joint for years. It was sad. It was one of those places that seem to get lost or forgotten in the neon lights of well-known chains. The owner, Mike—he spared no cost with what he served. The best quality meat he could provide. It was not like the meat you find in chains that is thirty percent soy. Not that soy is bad, but sandwiches should not be comprised of that much soy. Mike also had the best bottled soda: Boylens, from Jersey. One of the last sodas to use all cane sugar. Best Reuben and ginger ale I've ever had. Remembering this, I suggested that we go to The Moose. It had recently been purchased and remodeled. I had been there once or twice since. Its atmosphere had a drastic change. It was no longer congested and crowded, but spacious.
The bar was across the street. We hopped into my Sunfire and drove to it. I should've said "Let's get an 18 pack and head back to my house." Instead, I parked the car. It was hot and sunny that day—the kind of Texas heat that makes you sweat when you get out of your car. A cartoonish Moose stared down at me as we approached the doors. I looked up at the lurid creature, then entered.
The bar had changed to a large S shape instead of a single line. In between each curve two or three beer taps stood. We took two seats on the last curve. Max sparked smoke. I asked to borrow his lighter; I had left mine at home, assuming we would return shortly.
The bartender asked what we would have.
After noticing the Fat Tire tap, I answered "Fat Tire, please."
Max said "Could I get a Miller Lite?"
She asked "Twenty ounces?"
I nodded.
"Can I see your IDs, boys?" she said.
I slid mine to her, almost six years old and about to expire. I had a silly smirk and purple hair. Max showed her his.
"All right. You want to open a tab?" she asked.
I slid her my card and smiled. She took my card and promptly returned with our beers.
I said "It's Monday, you ain't got no work, you ain't got no school, I'm gonna get you drunk." We clinked glasses and began our way to lush land.
After a few minutes I asked the bartender if she had some matches. She smiled and slid me a flipbook. I asked the obligatory question to independent store workers: "How is business?" She answered: "It's going well, we've got more than our fair share of regulars." Just then, around 1 p.m., a couple sat next to us. I overheard that they were newlyweds and that they went on a tropical cruise for their honeymoon. And just arrived back in town with hangovers. Hair of the dog, the drunk's credo. They were here to cure their pain.
The husband was telling a tale of a situation they had witnessed while boarding a cruise ship. His story involved a husband around forty with his wife and two kids. They were about to board the ship when a K9 started to nuzzle and bark at his carry-on. The man started acting nervous. He was finicky and flush. The custom officials requested to view the contents of his bag. The husband dropped his bag and jumped into the water. The kids' mouths dropped. The wife screamed. The wife could only stand and scream. The officials opened the bag. It was filled with cocaine. The kids cried softly. That was how I met Dan. Dan the man with stories of illicit drugs.
The bartender had ceased talking to the couple and it was after a few rounds. I was feeling cordial. I went to use the restroom and on my way back I extended my hand and said "Congratulations on your marriage." Dan shook my hand firmly and said "Thank you." "My name is Paul," I announced as if to the bar, even though there were only five people visible in the bar. He said "Nice to meet you. My name is Dan and this is my wife Renee." "Dan the man," she corrected. So our bar-friendship began. Dan was drinking beer, and Jack and Diet Cokes on the side.
The horrible music in the bar had carried on for long enough. I walked to the jukebox. Scanning through the list of songs could take hours. But the jukebox supported download play—a neat feature that would let you download a song from the music provider for one-time use. I searched for Iron Maiden—sure enough, a list of their songs popped up. I selected "Number of the Beast". I chuckled. The other side of the bar had two more people, looked like real shit kickin' good ol' boys. I laughed as I sat down. I handed Max a buck, told him to play something fun. He meandered to the juke, fed the machine the dollar. He sauntered back, a grin on his face, and said one word to me: "Cowboy." I smiled. At this point in time a good ol' country classic was playing and it was a damper to the mood; my mood, anyway. I don't have anything against country, just at that time and place it was not correct.
Just then a high-pitched scream echoed in the beer hall. "Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah," sounded from the speakers. I smiled. Max thrashed his head forward, a wave of black locks fluttered like dying butterfly wings. The cowboys shook their heads. We laughed.
Dan asked "What is this? It sounds familiar."
I responded "It's Maiden's 'Number of the Beast'."
"That's it," he replied.
I said "Saw 'em once with Max here. It was two years back."
"Three years, I think," Max corrected.
"Well, three years back we saw them. Bruce Dickenson just got back in the band. What made the day even better, Motorhead and Dio were opening. Naturally we tailgated. Our friend Stu picked us up. We stopped by Charlie's, which is now closed, for food and cups."
"Best damn roast beef you ever had. It's sad the placed closed," Max chimes in. "The owner, Mike—he was a badass. He would let us bring beer into the shop and sit in the back and drink while we ate. Of course we would always send a few his way." Max pauses and sparks a cigarette. "He would even let us go behind the store and smoke in the shade in the summer. Mike would play movies here and there. Paul, you were with me when we saw the last one, right?"
"Yea," I say, "The Ghost of Mister Chicken, or something like that."
Max continues: "Real nice guy. It's too bad the place closed. Small businesses like that have trouble surviving in this world, even when they have a better product. Mike was there every day except for major holidays."
I continue: "Well, we stop there so Stu can get food. Max went in and got us a few cups with lids. We ended up pouring about three or four beers in the cups for the ride out. What was surprising is that Stu didn't even care. So we drank our beers in the car along the way. Once we got to the parking lot Stu joined in and just started chugging cider. The reason is, well, who wants to pay eight dollars for a beer?"
"Eight dollars a fucking 12 ounce beer," Max declares.
Dan says "Hell no."
"So we make our way into the Smirnoff Music Center. Motorhead is the first to play. They take the stage and people just go nuts. Because Lemy is god."
Max laughs sardonically.
"Dio comes on next. I was not expecting anything great, but they put on a fucking good live show. Sure, their only well-known songs are 'The Holy Diver' and to a lesser extent 'Rainbow'. I have seen my fair share of metal shows in my time. Right when I started college I was going to two or three a month. But at any rate, Dio just blew me away. The crowd was into it more than I would have ever expected. However, once Maiden came on—in the background, 'Sacrifice is going on tonight' is spoken as loud as the conversation—everything went crazy. The band, for their age, put on one hell of a show. They formed 'round 76 I think. Well, anyway, a huge eddie was walking around the stage, the band members were rocking like they were in their twenties again... I was impressed."
By this time the bar had begun to fill up. The tables on the outskirts of the bar had a few customers. A space in front of the first S curve was now occupied by a gentleman in his early thirties. Shaved head, with glasses. Next to him, a man with silver hair sat quietly sipping a small beer.
The man with a shaved head speaks up: "That must have been a great show. That was right when Bruce got back in the band right?"
I smile. "Yes. That's right. It's funny I have not kept up with modern music in quite some time. Since 'bout 2000 or 2001. Nothing really has captured my attention. There are a few groups I still do... but not too many. For instance I picked up the new Tool album recently. '10,000 days'. But besides that it had been quite some time since I last picked up anything new."
Dan smiles and asks "How is it?"
I say "It's good, I dig it."
Shaved head echoes: "It's a good effort but not as good as their past works."
"Ever head of a group called Love?" Max triumphantly requests.
Everyone says no or shrugs.
The bartender signals if we want another round. I nod to answer. Soon again two twenty ounces are sitting in front of us. I forgot how much I liked Fat Tire. I love the subtle sweet chocolate in the finish. I forget everything for a moment. I justify life based on the chocolate that is almost nonexistent in liquid wheat. I return to hear Dan saying "I used to love Motley Crue." I yell "shout at the devil!" He laughs. The shaved head esoteric man is muttering about how he has to pick up his son from soccer practice soon. He goes on to say that he gets along great with the kid. They have similar tastes in music and have even been to a few shows together. However, this is the kind of music you would imagine most parents abhorring. "He's a cool guy," I think. Max is talking to Renee about school. The answer to the obligatory question of 'what do you do?' His answer reflects his current transitory life situation: "Unemployed, unsure, not apathy but angst." He answers that he is leaving for New Mexico soon. He will be staying with a friend and figuring things out. Renee says that she works for a publisher and went to UNT. I tell her about the recent events with Fry Street—the interminable possibility that it will be bought out. Converted. Changed to chain stores. All the independents gone. She remarks "That sucks. I spent a lot of time at the Tomato and Cool Beans, not to mention all the lunches I had at Chopsticks." "Yea, soon it will be a Borders and Starbucks." She finishes her drink and signals for another.
Somehow the conversation turns to tattoos. Not sure. I look down to the empty side of my glass, I see Max is in the same boat. I signal for two more. Dan shows us a tattoo he got in the eighties. It's a crude bird of some sort. I am not too sure. Renee speaks about how she wants to get their first kid's name tattooed on her when the time happens. Max says "I want Fuck You tattooed on my forehead." Everyone laughs. I say "I don't have any ink. I have had more than my fair share of piercings, I suppose. Besides the three I have now—left corner lip, septum, vertical industrial—I have had my eyebrows done four different times, and my bridge and my septum once before." Renee says "You can't see any of the scars." "Heh," I chuckle, "you can, but only close. I had to take them out because... well, finding a job with that much shit in your face is hard. And there was no way in hell I was going to work at Hot Topic." The last thing I wanted to do was sit around and listen to emocore, screamo, or whatever the fuck you want to call it.
Dan and I get around to talking about the type of liquor we like. He says one of his favorite shots is a Red Soco. I've never heard of this one. It's a Blaster with Soco instead of Jager. This sounds kinda nasty. And then Dan just decides he will buy us a round. Shaved head guy declines politely. Max is outside on the phone during this time, speaking with his father. The bartender has them done in a few seconds. I have to run out and get him. He comes in reluctantly. He lifts the glass and tosses the brownish liquid down his throat. He coughs, citing "I can't shoot anymore." Which is true. The only thing I see Max shoot these days is peppermint schnapps. I think the shot is OK. Naturally, to return the favor, I send them a round of real Blasters, announcing that it is necessary to make a toast before each shot. They agree, except Renee has already consumed most of her drink. I wish them best in luck in their future, and 14 and 1/2 children.
Time—that bastard snuck by us. We got there around one and seven was almost here. We were considering leaving at this time. The initial bartender was getting off and was asking if she could get us another beer and kill our tab. Of course I agreed. There is no reason for another tender to get her tip when I could reopen the tab. Besides, we had been there long enough and we should be off anyway.
I notice the silver-haired gentlemen had an interesting watch. It caught my eye. Not many watches do. I am pretty utilitarian about these things. It had a black face. It took a few minutes for me to realize what it was, actually. The watch displayed time in binary code. It was something I had not seen. I complimented the man on his watch. He said "I purchased it in Japan on business." "That's neat," I say. Find out that the silver hair is a writer, a technical writer at that. He told me that I should try to visit Japan if the chance presents itself. I mentioned in passing that I may try to teach abroad. He thought that would be an excellent idea. However, I remain skeptical.
We took Dan's offer to sit with them. Three friends of Dan had arrived, all in their early thirties except for one who was in her early forties and recently divorced. The older woman, Cheryl—she had ordered a thirty-ounce beer. Up until this point Max and I had only been drinking twenty-ounces. And had already racked up a bar tab reaching a hundred before tip. We obviously made the switch.
Dan mentioned that he was looking to pick up a fair amount of music. Naturally, I asked him what kind he was looking for. He just mentioned a lot of music out of the eighties and some contemporary music. I said "Well, I have over 200 gigs of music. I think I could burn you an mp3 DVD and save you the trouble." He was quite grateful.
I went to use the bathroom; I swung the door a little hard. It hit a man using the urinal in the back. Immediately I apologized. I used the toilet and we finished at the same time, roughly. I offered to buy the man a beer—hell, I felt bad. He said his name was Cebo. Odd name. Good ol' boy. He thanked me. He said "It's good ta see that respect is still in you youngins."
I next found my way to the juke again. Having trouble finding a song I thought was appropriate, I played the old drinking song 'Mr. Roboto'. I come back to the table with a swell swagger. Max is talking to the crowd. He mentions that they will not serve us if I drive. However, if he drives, they will let us drink more. I agree. I sing the song with Max. Pseudo karaoke to group. At the song's finish I realize it is getting somewhat late. It is almost nine.
We decide to stay for one last round. By this time I am bumming smokes from Dan the man. We decide along the way to my house we will stop at a gas station to get smokes. I had coupons that Camel sent me. Buy one pack and get one free.
Feel like commenting?
your name
link?
Who is the current US president?