what I'm working on lately...
Charlie was in the other stall getting blown by an angel who traded her halo for a pair of twelve dollar stilettos. They do it like a draft, Satan and God; she was a first round pick, fresh out of junior high and oblivious to the fact that she was socially climbing a bunny hill. But Charlie and I, we talked, walked and, with the right amount of booze, looked like the real deal. She was the one breaking curfew. Don't blame Charlie; blame bad parenting, bad vision (he glanced at her real ID, mistaking a three for an eight), and the universal wickedness of man.
I couldn't shit while hearing their fucksounds but I pretended, grunting and growling like a burn victim. With a whistle, a flush, a buckle, and a wash I was out of purgatory heading towards paradise, just beyond the wet floor sign. Maybe I'm giving the joint a bit too much credit, but Grumpy's Bar and Grill was where the cool cats flocked when they weren't feeling cocky. I knew 'em all: the poolsharks, the drunks, the players, the punks, the jukebox junkies, the weekend honeys, the off-duty cops, and an unclassifiable enigma who went by the name Jim.
He called himself the prophet of pussy. He had been handpicked by the holiest of holies to deliver pleasure to every blue-eyed bird stationed at the bar, or so he claimed. Reality, however, deemed Jim an unpleasant peasant, more of a fop than a firebrand; his hair slicked back with what stuck and smelt like synthetic semen. Twenty years earlier he would have been balls deep in the honey pot, but he refused to adapt. His relentless efforts to tow the status quo rarely resulted in success, yet he still proclaimed proudly that he would pound every Stacy, Susan and Sally who entered his field of vision. His woes weren't regulated to romance, however; history had its way with Jim. Reagan managed to lift his hopes while dropping his wages. Poppa Bush shipped him off to get shot at in a country he couldn't pronounce. Clinton got more ass than he did, which did irreparable damage to his libido. Now the fortunate son was sending him back to the suck for a six month stint. He wasn't handling it well.
"They're playing for keeps this time, the towel heads. It's different now, with 9/11 and all. No rules. No regulations. No respect."
Jim's a straight shooter with a shitty scope, completely void of political correctness-not in the breath-of-fresh-air tell-it-how-it-is sense, but like a parakeet forced to intercept a ridiculously unhealthy amount of conservative talk radio. As much as I wanted to call him on his bullshit, I realized that I'd much rather leave Grumpy's with a honey than a headache. Plus he was shaking, stuttering, and likely packing. Offering him anything beyond a nod of comprehension would have only welcomed his unraveling. He lost it, though, without my assistance. His big dumb eyes began pissing tears all over the countertop.
"I'm going to fucking die!" He wept, sinking his face into his hands. "How am I supposed to keep up with this gut? My knees are fucking noisemakers!"
It wasn't about the war. I mean, sure, it kind of was, but more than anything else, it was about age. You see, Jim couldn't hide the grey anymore. He was beginning to accept that nearly every instance of action and, more importantly, inaction would pull him further into the soil. If enemy fire didn't get the job done, a steak would. If a steak didn't finish the job, a staircase would. He was clearly on borrowed time and this didn't sit well with Jim. He didn't say it, but he didn't really need to. These things can be read. I offered to buy his next beer; he declined.
"Is that supposed to help? Will it cross my name off the list, remove the bull's-eye from my back? I don't fucking think so, Steve. I don't fucking think so."
He had a point. He needed a deferral, not a drink.
"I used to be a real man-on the field, off the field, in the bedroom, in the classroom, every-fucking-where. I wasn't such a coward. What would my father think?"
He slammed his head on the bar, stopping his sobs. He sat there motionless, staring at his distorted reflection on the booze-stained countertop. I offered a few words, but he didn’t react. I shot a puzzled look to Henry, a former classmate of mine who was manning the bar. He shrugged back, diligently shining a glass with a dish towel.
"Give it time, kid," he told me. "Give it time."
But poor old Jim-he was out of time. He silently rose from his barstool, stumbling towards the restroom, and fired a shot before the door closed behind him. The teen beauty queen ran out screaming in her bra and panties, covered in blood. Charlie followed, with pants in hand and a catatonic stare. He cupped his hand against my ear and began to whisper:
"Grumpy's gonna have to close shop early tonight."