Completely Emptied

We saw our bartender walking down the sidewalk on Carson Street in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon. It was strange. We almost didn’t recognize him. I don’t think you’re ever supposed to see bartenders that way. It ruins the magic, kind of like when they looked behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz. We smiled and nodded. My wife commented that he and I actually look a great deal alike. He’s just a little more slender, leaner, tattooed, and less muscular. Later, we ended up at the Moose drinking. As we approached the bar he saw us, drew a Guinness and a Woodchuck from the fridge and put them down in front of us. We all chuckled, and he said that when he had seen us earlier outside on the sidewalk he had immediately thought, “Guinness and a Woodchuck.” It felt good to know that even if I was an alcoholic, I was at least a memorable alcoholic. I put a bunch of stuff on the jukebox, the first thing being Motorhead, “No Class.” As soon as it started up, it was met with groans from the bar. Our bartender friend laughed, and yelled, “No Motorhead!” at us. Two other guys at the bar nodded agreement. I guess they get tired of hearing it. There’s tons of it on the jukebox. I also put on some Crowbar, Black Sabbath, and Fugazi for a surprise finish.

We went to a table and sat. We played pool. It took forever because we’re both terrible at playing pool. Eventually our friend Kareem showed up. It was good to see him. It had been a while. He’s still unemployed. A few months ago he got laid off. He’s riding his unemployment until it runs out, then getting another job. He loves it. It’s a pretty sweet gig. I know. I’ve been laid off twice. It’s like a giant paid vacation. I wouldn’t mind getting laid off again. I hate my job and wouldn’t miss it a bit. Regardless, we drank and talked about travel and music and drinking. I already had four in me before we'd gotten to the Moose. Two imperial stouts, one doppelbock, one brown ale, all at different places. Then I drank a few Guinnesses at the Moose. It got late. I had poured down just about all the beer I could hold. I wasn’t really drunk, just very full of beer. I was at capacity. My wife drove. The car ride was long. We had the windows down, and the cool night air rushed in and around us.

When we got home, I took a long piss. Holding it for the length of the car ride was an incredible accomplishment. After I was relieved of that, it occurred to me that I was still burdened. So I took a shit. I was more relieved still. Life was improving by the second. It was, however, very short lived, as I realized then what had to come next. So I got down on my knees to pray to the bowl that still stunk of my recently flushed bowel movement. I wasn’t really too happy about that, though it probably expedited the imminent vomiting. I threw up what had to be a bucket of Guinness and the miscellaneous things which I had eaten for dinner. The fullest, most complete relief that I’ve ever felt in my life overcame me at that moment. It was kind of euphoric in a way. It may have been the best buzz I had had that evening. I was completely empty. I’m sure the toilet was grateful that it was all over, as well. When I emerged from the bathroom I looked like walking hell. My wife thought that I had been at war with something in there, and was glad to see that I had come out victorious. After brushing my teeth, I passed out on the bed and slept like I was dead.

Lemmy’s Twin Brother

Lemmy Kilmeister has a twin brother, and he lives in Pittsburgh. He’s been here his whole life, and I had no idea. My wife and I just met him last night, though I don’t recall his name. Lemmy’s twin brother is an extremely talkative 43 year old guy, who hangs out at the Smiling Moose a lot and drinks cheap beer. He knows all about lots of things, such as being in the military, welfare, social security, disability, taxes, art, fashion, music, and college. First he instructed my wife on all of these various subjects. Then I rescued her, took her place, and he repeated all of the aforementioned information to me. Ironically, he doesn’t like Motorhead. He also told me that he’s having a hard time getting laid because there are no single women in Pittsburgh his age. Last year, he only got laid twice, and it was with his ex-girlfriend from Cleveland. My wife and our friend Kareem grabbed a table, and at an opportune moment also thankfully grabbed me away from Lemmy’s twin brother to go sit with them. Three pretty young punker girls immediately took our seats at the bar. From our new spot, we could see Lemmy’s twin brother lean over towards them, and my wife, Kareem, and I toasted all of them.

Gaggle

It was the first Saturday night that had been above 60 degrees this year. There was a gaggle of bitchy-looking girls walking down the sidewalk in front of us. Going the same way we are, though most likely to a different bar. Five girls and a guy. He was a reasonably big guy, but not huge. He was a dopey-looking frat boy, apparently dragged along as security. Everybody appeared to be in their early 20s, probably all good girls majoring in business at one of the various local colleges. They’re only kind of bitchy now. The real carnage won’t start until much later. Just give them a few years. Heads will roll. Blood will flow. The girl at the center of the gaggle was wearing a cardboard cut-out tiara with the numbers “21” on top of it. They were all showing off their gifts as best they could, and they were good. They were very nice to look at. I spent four blocks’ worth of East Carson staring at their asses and listening to all the meatheads in passing cars yelling indecent suggestions to them. Halfway through our voyage, my wife told me that she thought the sound of their heels clomping on the sidewalk sounded like horses’ hooves, and I laughed out loud.

Stephanie’s Back!

The regular guy called off and Stephanie’s filling in for him. Kareem called from the bar to let us know. We were already drinking at a different bar on the same street. We pounded the rest of our drinks and we ran down the street like giddy alcoholic school children on a bright Saturday afternoon. The bar was empty except for the four of us. The beers came one after another. Free shots of whiskey came too. We poured it all down and talked about music and tattoos. It got dark and the bar filled up. The frat boys who like to pretend to know how to drink arrived, and we had to end the Slayer marathon we had been playing on the jukebox. We all had different places to go, except Stephanie. She had to work ‘til close.

A New Bartender

Earlier in the week we were at the Lava Lounge and a guy stopped at the bar to pick up a six pack. He looked like a young Anthony Kiedis, with very long, straight, dark hair. He was very thin and svelte, with very tattooed arms covered in Japanese koi, waves and such. I noticed my wife take a good look at him, and I immediately seized upon the delightful opportunity to give her a hard time. I don’t often catch her looking, so it was very funny for me. He didn’t look old enough to buy booze or even vote, but Greg didn’t even card him. We laughed, and forgot about it.

A few nights later we were back at the Lava Lounge, and he was there again. This time, he was behind the bar serving people. My wife marveled at how young he looked. Obviously he was at least 21, as I don’t believe a bar can hire you to serve alcohol if you’re not. I supposed that’s why Greg didn’t card him the previous night, because he already knew him and knew that he was old enough. So I reached around and smacked my wife hard on the ass and said, “I bet he’d love to hit that!” She replied, “No, he’s too young. He’s probably got no idea what he’s doing.” My wife and I are both 29, but first met when we were 18. I asked her if I had known what I was doing at 21, and she burst out laughing. I said, “Okay, well look at him! Even if it doesn’t last long, he’ll recharge quickly!” She replied, “I’m sure, but it’ll make me feel like a creepy old lady.” And she chuckled. I had no logic with which to retaliate other than, “That’s ridiculous!” The guy had no idea that I was trying to get him laid as he worked the other end of the bar, a cigarette behind his ear, and his black ponytail stopping just below his shoulder blades. I wondered if there would have been a free beer in it for me if he had known. The irony in my wife’s insecurity with her being 29 is that she also looks like she’s only 17. She occasionally still gets carded at “R” rated movies, and always for alcohol unless it’s at a place where the servers know us. I reminded her of that fact, though to no avail. She asked if I would be willing to sleep with a girl that young and it was my turn to burst out laughing. I explained that a girl doesn’t need to be skilled, just willing. Skill is a nice bonus if a girl’s got it, but not altogether necessary. We both laughed at ourselves, and we knew that nobody would be going home with us that night.