Live and Let Die
“Hey Frenchman! I have a pack of smokes and a debit card. Let’s go change the world,” I say as I walk in the front door. The Frenchman rises from his spot on the couch gently placing his mac book down. Why in the hell we have a fat bearded Frenchman living on our couch I may never know but he drinks and smokes and that’s all I ask.
“Holy shit,” he replies. “If you’re talking like this already tonight may be epic,” he states unquestioning my previous statement. He knows better. He’s seen or heard of past excursions of poisoned insanity. This is all just another day in the life to him more entertainment. Same for me as well I suppose.
“I do what I can for the benefit of the world, good sir.”
We leave this disaster area of a house. The goddamn place should be condemned. The last time it was clean the Kaiser was still running Germany for fuck sake. Bottles Chinese boxes the leaves from the death of nature are everywhere. There may be a crack dealer stashed away somewhere under a pile of nature and garbage. Shit this Frenchman may in fact be that crack dealer. I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
Walking to the public Paul McCartney and the Wings’ “Live and Let Die,” blare out of the speakers of my blackberry.
“Yass, yass, ‘your heart is an open book’ you French bastard.”
We wander towards the shitty dive bar in De Pere, Wisconsin, that wishes it were a trendy college dance club on this chilly November night and when you’re 21 and just drunk enough not to know better it may in fact be that. I wouldn’t know I’m never drunk enough to hit the point of absolute loss of my cognitive skills. At no point will remixes of Johnny Cash ever be worth the ear bleeding. I don’t care how many cosmos you’ve had or whatever bullshit drink “Desperate Housewives” or “Sex in the City” made popular this year.
“Hey Tom.”
“Muse. Pierre. The usual?” He asks as he places his hands on the bar, which brings the tattooed sleeves he has permanently paid for on his arms in view.
“Yeah, gin, tonic, lime.” I reply. “Two.”
We sit at the far corner of the bar. This is my spot. It has officially been commandeered for the evening. It would take an invasion of mass proportions to remove us on this night. They know me here. Come here two three four times a week. Depends on the week. “Both?” he asks as he picks my card up off the slick wooden bar.
“Of course. Of course.”
The Frenchman nods in appreciation in his Alkaline Trio zip-up hoodie that’s five years and 20 pounds ago. Pot booze and munchies can take it’s toll on all of us. I take my overcoat off and sit back down in my forest green dress shirt and loosen my black tie with stripes to match the shirt.
Tom places the cocktails down before us. It’s buy two get one free or buy one get two free. Depends on the barkeep. Speaking of which here comes the other of the two chemists for the night Amanda. A lovely girl with dark hair and pale skin. Young. Maybe 20 21 attractive, wearing black dress pants and sleeveless top with a silver necklace. Hanging from the necklace is a pendant the size of a half dollar.
The bar has too much wood everywhere. The bar walls and floor all wood. It’s less like a club and more like deer camp. A giant buffalo head hangs above the bar. I wonder where in the hell does one garner a buffalo head to spruce up his college bar’s appearance?
We pound the drinks down fast. It’s only 10 or so but we know the awful beats and people who will come with time and a rise in their blood alcohol content. To combat this I must be on my game and rival those numbers. An army with fewer men is destined to lose. I look to the back wall behind us next to the DJ booth. A poster of Elton John and Billy Joel from a concert tour long ago is screwed into the wall. With their cool 80’s shades I know they’ve got my back.
Amanda looks at me inquisitively. I nod and place my now empty pint glass a few inches in front of where it previously stood. She picks it up with care and begins to concoct another lab experiment for my mind.
“So how are you tonight?” she asks.
“Good, good.”
“No depressed looks,” she laughs.
“No, no, not tonight Amanda my dear. Tonight nothing matters. No depression tonight. Tonight is to be a blast. Drinks at the public followed by champagne at the house till dawn. In or out?”
“We’ll see how tonight goes,” she replies with a smirk.
I know she’s trying to get a reaction. I gaze back at her knowing I can wear her down with my eyes. Fixed on hers. Locked into position. Ready to fire. Mutual assured destruction will come later and she knows it.
“Yeah of course you know I’m in,” she laughs. “But we must do a shot.”
“Positively, we must do a shot,” I retort. The Frenchman next to me is in agreement. He laughs billowing smoke out his mouth colliding with the beard of surrender.
Suddenly a text comes in. It’s Gerard Diaz.
Come to the Gnaw.
Perhaps, however I have just garnered a cocktail.
Where are you? Who’s there? He wonders. He’s intrigued now. He knows the night is already on.
Baba’s. The Frenchman, and I. Amanda and Tom.
I’ll be there in a bit.
Gerry arrives shortly thereafter around midnight. He’s a bigger Irish fellow with curly red hair and a bad ticker. Only drinks red wine. He’s into cabernets for the time being off of the noir kick he was previously entrenched in. Suited up he had just come from a friend’s wedding I wasn’t invited to.
“Everyone bailed,” he informs me.
“Everyone?”
“Yeah, Amber and Mike. Nick and Mary Rose. Andrea and Phil. All of them.”
“Of course they did, you silly bastard. They’re all married or soon to be. That’s what happens when you throw yourself into the fires of commitment.”
******
The bar begins to fill with various idiots and assholes. They are trying to invade. I can feel it. The charge will follow soon. It’s about quarter to one. Another text this time from Julia.
Where are you? she asks.
With the Frenchman and Gerry. Tom and Amanda are bartending. Why are you not where I am?
I could be if you came here, she replies.
This isn’t about me this is about you and not being where I am.
Then get your ass here. I just got a fish-bowl, Julia retorts.
I just garnered a cocktail from a lovely barkeep who goes by Tomas the Rock and Roll Destroyer.
Ok?… I’m sorry, but if you’d just come to the Gnaw, it’d be a different story.
I am way cooler than the Gnaw, I point out.
But I have alcohol.
And I am alcohol, I remind her.
But I can’t drink you! Haha
You sure about that?
That would be considered eating…
Perhaps miss… perhaps.
******
Just then a little brunette girl squeezes her way in between the Frenchman and I. We’re starting to be breached. She’s small though young. Probably not too smart and there’s only one of them I can handle this spy. Clearly looking for a beverage and I have the ins to get it.
“What do you need, hun?”
“Huh? Hey, hi,” the girl babbles. I have no idea what the hell she sprays out of her mouth all I can hear is fittycent five years too late. She’s named after a month or something and has a Pennsylvania ID. Most likely not of age at all. I see her game. She needs two Captain and diets. Obvious drinks of the enemy.
I flag down my barkeep “Amanda, dear, I need two rum and diets for this lovely girl right here, thanks.” Flattery the best way to conquer the enemy.
“Tequila!” the month yells. “We need to do shots of tequila! You and me! Tequila!” I thought chemical warfare was outlawed. Apparently not. I have the training for this, but does she?
“Amanda, three shots of tequila too!” I turn to April May June whatever it doesn’t matter, “My Frenchman here, he’s going to need one too.” He nods and blows more smoke out. Sneaky quiet bastard listening to every word. Hiding behind that beard.
“Yeah! Three shots of tequila!” She puts her arm around both of our shoulders. “What are you guys doing after bar?”
“Champagne till dawn, my house, 602 4th.” She hands me her number 916 area code. California number Pennsylvania ID definitely not 21. This may be a child spy named after a month in Spring not over 16 who knows, must proceed with caution. Three shots spread on the bar. I hand, she takes swallows. I can tell it burns. She winces bites down hard on the lime. Doesn’t help. Hand her mine I don’t need it. Damn rookies. Clearly not ready for this type of combat but I applaud her courage. She thanks departs.
“Call me later, Muse.”
******
We’re past the point of no return now half past one. The bar dice shots gin and random children have begun taking hold. Unfortunately I can’t keep pace in the race for B.A.C. The idiots and assholes are winning. They’re closing in fast. I peer about the room that’s when it hits me and I fully realise the predicament I’m in. Jesus Christ I’m surrounded by douchebags. I may be one of only a handful of people here without a moist toilette up my ass. I may in fact not make it out alive. Did I hop on the crazy train? Maybe. Perhaps it’s the only safe caboose to ride now. Babbling idiots are now trodding behind the bar unaware of any boundaries. Spitting whilst speaking incoherently asking for poison they don’t know how to handle spilling drinks all over the bar and themselves. It runs down their chins disgustingly out of control.
We need to make a break for it. I know it the Frenchman knows it. Gerry knows it. Amanda can see it in my eyes. It’s time to retreat. She and Tom will be left to fight the good fight alone for the last hour but they know yes they know I’ll be back for them. No one gets left behind. Not when you’re changing the world. Slam drinks, close tab. Say goodbye to the barkeeps, let them hear you’ll rendezvous later at the house and communication lines will be kept open.
Push free through the slobbering fools all the way across the room to the door. Bust into the brisk air onto the sidewalks. Stagger our way down to Julia and the Gnaw. More drinks more drinks must be had immediately.
******
The hour passes bar close hits. The haze has crept in. Bobbing weaving breaking tackles down the beaten path we wander towards champagne. Open trunk dig out bottles from the box. Pop corks light cigarettes crank music continue the madness. Others are at the house not sure who they all are… Food. Food? Yes we must get food. Who’s sober. Who? Give him my keys. Here take the card. Yes yes pizza good good. Yes cheese… Drink more pop cork light cigarette. Yes, yes miss month 602 602. Come come champagne till dawn most certainly… Food. Where? What? Bake. Turn knob. Open package place on rack. Yes yes I set an alarm… Pop cork light cigarette, yes yass you made it. Here drink drink. Yeah it’s pink. Me business no English writing, apparently… Alarm cold reset… cork light… What… what? Smoke what? Where? Don’t see. Haze? Fog? Fire…?
******
Huh? What? Oh fuck. Jesus Christ. Shit fuck. Where? Head beats heart pounds calves tense and knot like trying to use a Major League baseball for stress relief. Must regain bearings. Where the hell am I? Peering around the room I realise I’m not where I should be. I’m on a futon in an open room. White walls TV I’m in a living room but whose? Shift my position. Jesus Christ I’m hammered. I’m not alone there’s someone on the other couch, but who? My neighbour Julia Everything will be fine. Must take inventory. Phones, where are the phones/ Here here I sent myself a text at 7:46am just says “Wow.” What the hell transpired? I need to get out of this place get to work sell sell sell. AT&T calls for my services. Shit late late late late. Must get to work clothes are at the house. Must get clean shower. What the fuck happened last night? Why did I end up here? Did our house start on fire? I vaguely remember someone yelling fire. Stepping out of Julia’s I look towards my residence to find it still standing looking as it does every day. No no fire must get to work. Stagger into my house and head straight for the bathroom; shave shower wash hair change 7 minutes or less. Button up shirt attempt to tie tie. Head begins to clear and I walk out of the bathroom and look left. Grey dust and haze line the walls and ceiling coming out of the kitchen. Dammit this joint did light up last night. I may not have changed the world but the house most certainly is gaining a new stove.
******
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