Sitting at the bar. He watches the girls, listens to the music, orders another beer and smiles at the bartender.
“Glenlivet”
“On the rocks or straight?”
“Just give me the whole bottle.”
Looking around the room he sees familiar faces here and there but he does not have the guts to walk up and say hello. Everyone hates him. Or so he thinks. A loud “clunk” gets his attention, he looks back at the bar and there they are, his light beer and brand new bottle of single malt. The definition of his life. Everything all packed up in can or bottle form and ready to pour out. The Niagara Falls of human nature if you will.
He grabs his two bottles and heads to the bathroom. Waits in line and tries to make conversation.
“How ‘bout them sox last night, huh?”
He knows he is at a Yankee’s bar, he is just trying to piss someone off, enough to send him to the hospital or worse.
“Aw c’mon, no one saw the game?! Gotta love them SOX! WOOOOH!”
“Hey asshole”, someone yells from the line “you ever seen a comet?”
Mother fucking BINGO!
Without a second warning he gets hit on the glabella by a lit cigarrete dead on center, cherry side bullseye, that chunk of skin between your eyebrows that wrinkles up every time you frown. It really serves no purpose other than to provide a target for assholes to hit you.
As tiny embers of tobacco fly and burn through the layers unto his pupil and maybe his lens, he swings both bottles, hitting one of the Yankees square on the face. The only thing on his mind being the fact the it was the scotch bottle and not the beer. He just fucking bought that bottle.
Everyone stops.
The cops have already been called.
He pushes all the other assholes aside and makes his way to the bathroom, where he cries for 10 minutes. Luckily, at a bar your sobs are usually confused with vomiting. People bang at the door yelling “The cops are here! You better get your ass ready for jail motherfucker!”
Eventually the cops bring down the bathroom door. Find him still sobbing, covered in feces and urine, not his own. Some people just do not know how to use a public bathroom.
“Can I have some privacy!” he yells.
He walks out covered in shit and a smile, handcuffs on his shitty wrists.
“DO IT!, FUCKING DO IT! You wanted me, take me now.”
It had nothing to do with sports, he wasn’t even from Massachusetts, just a guy looking for pleasure. Looking for someone to prove to him that life is not worth living for. A reason to kill himself in that bathroom. He was hoping the guy he hit was dead. A big finally to his misery, to take some people down with him. Burn the place down and watch it happen, before he ran his car off an overpass.
Instead, he gets to live for another day. Another chance to stop being who he is and become someone he likes. Did he take the chance?
Sitting at the bar. He watches the girls, listens to the music, orders another beer and smiles at the bartender.
“Glenlivet”
“On the rocks or straight?”
“Just give me the whole bottle.”
Looking around the room he sees familiar faces here and there but he does not have the guts to walk up and say hello. Everyone hates him. Or so he thinks. A loud “clunk” gets his attention, he looks back at the bar and there they are, his light beer and brand new bottle of single malt. The definition of his life. Everything all packed up in can or bottle form and ready to pour out. The Niagara Falls of human nature if you will.
He grabs his two bottles and heads to the bathroom. Waits in line and tries to make conversation.
“How ‘bout them sox last night, huh?”
He knows he is at a Yankee’s bar, he is just trying to piss someone off, enough to send him to the hospital or worse.
“Aw c’mon, no one saw the game?! Gotta love them SOX! WOOOOH!”
“Hey asshole”, someone yells from the line “you ever seen a comet?”
Mother fucking BINGO!
Without a second warning he gets hit on the glabella by a lit cigarrete dead on center, cherry side bullseye, that chunk of skin between your eyebrows that wrinkles up every time you frown. It really serves no purpose other than to provide a target for assholes to hit you.
As tiny embers of tobacco fly and burn through the layers unto his pupil and maybe his lens, he swings both bottles, hitting one of the Yankees square on the face. The only thing on his mind being the fact the it was the scotch bottle and not the beer. He just fucking bought that bottle.
Everyone stops.
The cops have already been called.
He pushes all the other assholes aside and makes his way to the bathroom, where he cries for 10 minutes. Luckily, at a bar your sobs are usually confused with vomiting. People bang at the door yelling “The cops are here! You better get your ass ready for jail motherfucker!”
Eventually the cops bring down the bathroom door. Find him still sobbing, covered in feces and urine, not his own. Some people just do not know how to use a public bathroom.
“Can I have some privacy!” he yells.
He walks out covered in shit and a smile, handcuffs on his shitty wrists.
“DO IT!, FUCKING DO IT! You wanted me, take me now.”
It had nothing to do with sports, he wasn’t even from Massachusetts, just a guy looking for pleasure. Looking for someone to prove to him that life is not worth living for. A reason to kill himself in that bathroom. He was hoping the guy he hit was dead. A big finally to his misery, to take some people down with him. Burn the place down and watch it happen, before he ran his car off an overpass.
Instead, he gets to live for another day. Another chance to stop being who he is and become someone he likes. Did he take the chance?
