BKLOG

This is old and fresh.  It was written a couple years back by my friend Derek, a fine writer who will one day be widely published and sipping his Old Crow from a glass made of hundred dollar bills.  I found it while tidying up the ol’ hard drive.  Enjoy:

So there I am sitting at the bar, drinking a drink, thinking the think, trying to read, trying to blend, not being very good at waiting, again. I had a few buddies on their way for a night that was sure to be full of things that would not justify my lonely bed and heavy head in the morning, but shit, this is what I did. So I bookmark my page, take out my zippo, and pretend I’m from another time. There’s nothing quite like that first drag after lighting up with a metal lighter. Inhaling that butane is a marvel that can spark an imagination stupid. I mean, I could be in a fox hole with stubble, on a porch in Cairo complaining about the noise, or simply taking a meditative walk because the public transportation involved too much public. But right now I was in the same ‘ol dive as always, drinking the same cheap beer and whiskey, just trying to blur my reality until it came into focus. And to think, my real problems hadn’t even begun yet.

I exhaled my cigarette in silence.

I always seem to be the first one at a party, never have been cool enough to arrive late, and if it ever appears that way it’s completely by chance, or because I’m stoned. Today it’s because I’d rather go strait to the bar then be in my apartment alone for an hour or two. I’m not one of those people who takes power naps, or has a laundry schedule, or makes dinner more then once a week. I’d rather get the night started then prolong it, like I’ve said; I’m not very good at waiting.

I order another round for myself, whiskey on the rocks and draft beer, and peer around the bar. It’s not bad for a Wednesday night. The regulars are sitting on their stools at the bar, the bouncers struggling with a crossword at the door, and the younger kids sit sporadically at tables with their hats on backwards and with chicken wings in their hands. For all the contempt I have for this place I can’t help but like it. It has that familiar glow about it. Kind of like the Christmas lights your Mom hangs on the tree, tinsel and all. Its home, and I often treat it like a holiday when I’m here. I tip the waitresses and bartenders well, maybe too well for amount of money I make, but that makes them treat me better, and it also gets me that free shot from time to time. Simple pleasures in life are far too often overlooked, especially by me.

With my continued drinking, the friendless anxiety I had earlier is slowly seeping away and I’m suddenly regretting my friends showing up. I feel like Poe’s “Man in the Crowd”, at peace when by myself and surrounded by others. Amazing that right before he died he was delirious and not even wearing his own clothes. To this day no one knows why. Poor guy, Poe that is, not the Man the crowd, that man was lucky.

I continue to increase my buzz and look and listen around my dive. They have a real life DJ at this place believe it or not, and he’s playing the standard shitty sports bar pop. You know the kind, an awful mix of Hip-Hop, Pop, and Stadium Rock. I wonder how long I have until those frumpy girls in the corner are screaming out the lyrics to “Living on A Prayer”. My guess is three hours or after couple more rounds of Michelob Ultra are swilled down by their fat mouths. Either way the outlook is grim.

Then there it is.

There’s a sudden slap on my back immediately followed by “What’s going on shithead!?!”

“Not much fucker.” I mutter through some sort of smile.

I turn to the bartender and order another round, this time for two.

“Reggie’s on his way, he should be here in about 15 minutes.” Frank spits.

“OK”

And like that, another night of nothing begins.