Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Greg was tending an almost empty bar again. That’s generally what he’s up to at 7pm on a Saturday night. We’re frequently the only people there. Last night this was again the case, with the exception of a few other people who were barely drinking, scattered throughout the bar. Greg had gotten loaded the previous evening and had shaved his head. He was still hung over, and getting drunk again behind the bar. That’s always good for me and my wife. I sat down and ordered a double of Bushmill’s. My wife got some sort of elaborate martini. Greg started us up on free shots. In the course of about three hours, I drank my double of Bushmill’s, a double of Knob Creek, numerous shots of Glenlivet and Chivas, and two beers. Greg has got awesome taste in music, and together we all kept the jukebox jumping. Greg is half-Philipino and half-Irish. He calls himself a McFlip. As I was beginning to glow, and really get a good buzz going, I noticed just how red the Lava Lounge is. Very red, and it reminded me of the married couple we’d slept with a few short years ago, and the woman with the red back. I remembered that as the woman got more excited and closer to climax that her back turned brighter red. It was incredible to watch. That memory was filling my head beautifully, and the whiskey buzz was on its way up. Then a giant pack of frat boys and their bitchy women came through on a bar crawl, interrupting my brief intermission and dragging me back into the bar. They all ordered Miller Lite, like they were members of a death cult. Jim Jones would have smiled. We endured it. Greg scrambled to accommodate. There was one jackass who looked exactly like Lance Armstrong, only a bit more muscular. He was probably about my height, but with a good 20 pounds of additional lean muscle. Not a guy to fuck with. He sat down beside me to order a drink for himself and another for his girlfriend. In an effort to be friendly and cordial, I said, “Hey man, you look just like Lance Armstrong. I bet you get that a lot.” He replied, “Who’s that?” while leaning forward on the bar and kind of flexing a little in what appeared to be an effort to intimidate me. I explained who Lance Armstrong was, and he didn’t seem to care. I guess he had figured out that I wasn’t trying to start a fight, and beyond that point he wasn’t interested. Like a swarm of locusts, they eventually moved on, and left their beers all strewn about the place like bodies on a battlefield. Lance Armstrong’s meathead look-a-like went with them. I gathered up all the empties for Greg, in a modest attempt to repay him for all the free whiskey in my belly. Eventually we left for dinner, and I poured more beer down with it.