..…some day in the future, maybe today, or maybe one hundred years in the future, because time is but an illusion to our frail minds, I found myself cemented in front of a retro pinball machine, balls deep in a bar arcade, or what a hipster might call a “barcade” (although I am no hipster, and despite their culture being akin to stuffing one’s self in a greasy football locker, I must admit there are respectable aspects, such as the allergic reaction to honest work, independent music and film, and American Spirit cigarettes), manically paddling and plunging away, determined to take down the all-time high score, when all of a sudden, my guardian angel approaches me from the rear. I cannot see or feel her, there is no trace of the wisps of her physical being, and yet somehow she is able to slip me a mysterious gummy, one that finds the inside of my mouth that I end up chewing and swallowing without even a single thought as to if that was a smart decision or not (of course it was, you curmudgeon! Sobriety is a sweet lie we tell ourselves to convince us this world is good and welcoming. You swear off drugs and alcohol, and yet your next of kin will have you chained to the morphine machine in the hospital bed because they refuse to let you die in pain. You don’t do anabolics, and yet supplemental testosterone graces your veins as you cross the age-50 barrier, because you want to retain your six-pack. Good luck navigating the mornings without stumbling upon a caffeinated beverage. Even our water supply is tainted with trace amounts of prescription drugs and hallucinogenic metals! You will not live sober, and you will certainly not die sober. So you might as well enjoy them while you can.)
Soon enough, the laughs grow heartier, the jokes become funnier, and everyone around you has a fuzzy, warm glow to their aura that you otherwise wouldn’t have noticed. Another round, por favor. I approach the bar, like a thirsting ruminant longing for another drink in the sweltering African savannah, hoping to elude the inevitability of the pride of lions:
What can I get you?
Another beer.
What were you drinking again?
Yes. Another beer?
Another what?
Another beer.
Great! That all?
Another beer.
Sounds good, anything else?
Three tequila shots and another beer.
Okay, do you have a tab op-
I watch intently as a bottle of well is pulled from deep beneath the counter and dusted off, as no one in the three year history has ever ordered a tequila, let alone three…. but much like the creation of the original Four Loko, a work of modern-day alchemy, innovation must take precedence if mankind is to persevere. The barkeep lines up a trio of plastic shot glasses (some hipsters they are saving the environment using plastic instead of glass to save on margins; in a few months those cups will be lodged in the stomach of a river otter, and yet unsuspecting youths will still be having conversations about Green Policy over a Hazy IPA) and pours them up, and as the fermented agave flows I’m reminded of the time my friends took a group celebratory shot of Rumplemintz without me because I was nowhere to be found, and by nowhere to be found, I mean I was upstairs in the handicap stall sniffing my house key with eight other dudes huddled around waiting for their turn… which reminds me….wait a minute…. I reach down to feel the back pocket of my athletic fit chinos. Aha! A stroke of genius. I knew I had brought it! Smart lad. My old dealer happened to be in town, and I knew a long weekend with old friends loomed. Coincidence I suppose, but nonetheless I pounced on the opportunity and purchased a “guy” to indulge myself. And I knew it would likely be me myself and I indulging; my friends are junkies, but they aren’t idiots. I won’t even offer. No need to throw another wrinkle in the plot. Sure enough, through the stitched fabric I can feel the all-too familiar silhouette of a miniature plastic ziplock baggie sitting idle waiting to be called into action like a B52 pilot. Well let me tell you boy, today is your lucky day. These commies are in for a long fucking night!
With the shots poured, barkeep’s attention turned to the single pilsner I had ordered mostly as a chaser and as something cold and sipable to hold to pass the time before the next round of shots and drugs. And I must admit, the pour is lovely. Mesmerizing even. I gape in dumfound intoxication as the liquified hops and sugar flow beautifully from the tap. The golden wheat ale glistening in the intrusive rays of sunlight peeking in from the paned ceiling. The pint glass transforms from empty to full before my own two eyes, and if you think I’m going to make a reference to the glass-half full or glass-half empty metaphor, you are dead wrong my friend, because life is not a glass with varying amount of unidentified liquid; life is a tube of toothpaste - you squeeze as much out of it as you possibly can until there is nothing left to squeeze, and when there is nothing left to squeeze, you are pitched in the bin and shipped off to the nearest landfill. But I can hardly focus now knowing the treasure that lies in my pants. The barkeep smiles and hands me my beverages; I proceed to smile and take the first shot with no reaction or recoil. She giggles and walks away to help the next customer, clearly unamused by the shenanigans. Fine. Shot number two down the hatch, this time followed by a sip of the beer. The world is now clearer. The world is a stage. No one is watching my tragedy. I take a moment to stare at the third shot, and boy does she ever stare back. Her supple lips and benevolent aroma, how I can taste her sweet symphony of purity on my quivering lips. A hand stretches out to grab her bottom from the bar; I suspect this was my hand, but divine intervention was now at play, and my central nervous system was no longer directing the play of my skeletal muscle production. Who is? Who am I to say really. All I know is the third shot finds the back of my throat and eventually the inner lining of my stomach, where the necessary substances are absorbed into my bloodstream, a biological process I am thankful for. Now off to the bathroom. Ideally the handicap stall. No one is balls enough to piss in the handicap stall at a hipster bar. Of course not. On my journey, I notice there’s some bum-looking dude I spy out of the corner of the eye giving me an amused look as I teeter on the edge of insanity. Does he want to fight? No, of course not. I’m blitzed - he must want to share a cigarette on the patio. I’ll hit him up later. But first, it’s off to the pisser…
Onwards,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith
Writer Boy
Pinball Wizard
License to Chill