Saturday

Start of a Bad Joke

It feels like Tokyo. My pockets empty and any other patron is silent, heads held higher than the average stance, hoggish air space violated by such inflation. Swine in rewind while the tender looks around. He passes me something in a glass, three ice cubes- the usual. I sit down at the usual table and my mask dips down. The usual neon glare, and it could easily be only after noon. The usual farce.

Fuck, I need a drink and I move my chair- it’s mocking me in the way the ladies down the aisle are. I make a tremendous noise on the tile. Always a little over zealous, my show is interrupted by the sneering of strangers. They’re all staring, looking through my stucco-stone visage, fuck. Why is it so hard to sit with the same composure you walked in with?

They’re all staring and I’m looking so hard at the third cube in the glass, fuck, it might get a hole in it. Stir. Stare. Ah, that sound is so fucking nice. Like that girl outside, her shoulder showing. Chick’s got daddy-issues and, shit, smoking a cigarette- too young. She’s staring. Fuck, now I have instantly become ‘that guy.’ I should get up; this show isn’t working for me right now.

I should leave- but I’ve got my usual spot and this drink. Too many ice cubes, that bar guy is new and he’s hitting on my usual waitress. I don’t blame him; I’ve been working on her thighs for two weeks. Every Wednesday. Fuck, I should drink this. The damned thing is mostly water now- too many ice cubes, the ratio was off, amateur.

I’m a start to a bad joke, aren’t I? A middle age man walked into a bar. Fuck, I need another drink. The usual. There is a woman at the table behind me. I saw her when I turned around because I was uncomfortable- they’re all staring. Well, they were. She wasn’t, and she won’t- I can tell. She’s got the thighs of the waitress and the shoulders of the girl outside, and she’s got a drink with third fucking cubes. She should love me.

The floor is stickier than usual. At this usual chair and my usual table, this is shit. I’m already drunk and I haven’t touched the stuff in front. I’m acting like a child, fuck. This lady is staring at the back of my head; I can feel it like the ice. I could think twice, but I always do. There is something about the vices I already know I’ve got- I’ve lived this shit long enough. Alone, per usual. I would kick myself, if I could. I’m being a child.

I don’t know, fuck. The windows are letting in way more light than usual. How may times can I look out- too many people catch my eye. But, only when I’m being a voyeur- so it fucking goes.

Oh- wait, the thighs from behind, with their shoulders so cutely there- so not Freud’s wet dream- I can do this, I can follow them. Oh- and she looking back. What, at the fucking window? Is she being coy? That’s so good, too good.

Wait, fuck. Is this a test, all I wanted to do was rest. Work was a bitch and if I have to report one more- ah no, she’s lagging at the door down the hall. Chick knows her stuff. The bathroom- cheers, lady that better be an invitation. I could go for it. They dared me before I left the office that I couldn’t mack tonight, bet I would wack tonight. Alright.

The chair-on-tile is a crash, as I get up to assert myself in some lady’s kitten in the bathroom. We’re all left with the mutilated metal mentally resting on the side of rt. 128 at rush hour. I cough to cover up some of my awkwardness, but tell me when that has ever worked for anyone- they’re all staring. The waitress- the bartender. He should make me another drink while I traverse the joint. This is too much, I would laugh at me, too.

I ordered a beer and it’s probably the only words I’ve said out loud since I’ve been in, today. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, the prick- bastard. I just want my beer. I order what’s on tap, assuming that makes me look cool to these kids. I wink at the waitress with the thighs- Ill received, duly noted.

Stare. Two minutes. Drink quick. I get to wallow here for a moment, and I realize after about two beers that I forgot about the bathroom puss. Fuck. It’s remarkable how right people can be about you- Fuck. I owe the boys in the office a round.

Wednesday

Forty-Year-Old Man

I'm working on this short story for a solid bud. I want to read it out loud and only aloud, but we'll see how it goes. I've been working on in through out the week, between piles of work and Gogol readings. Maybe that's too much of an influence. I hope this is what it's like to be a forty-year-old guy. Maybe I will finish it tomorrow.