Eight drinks and he is rolling

          Eight drinks and he is rolling. Go time, he thinks, the last one
tapped the sweet spot. The room looks promising. Where the hell
was this town again? Oh yeah, just outside of Lauderdale.

          The fat chick keeps smiling and staring. Back up plan now in place,
he thinks. Break the ice with a wafer; work the cookies when necessary.

‘Another Jack,’ he was pointing at his empty glass. The bartender is slow
here; down with the tips.

          Here comes his wafer. She looks a little old and ugly; a sordid little
monkey. She looks like a latitude girl. Space to maneuver, he thinks, she
may be the type to try new things.

‘What would you like?’ He flashes the devilish grin.

‘Bourbon and soda.’ She’s flattered, but doesn’t sell coy well.

          He orders a bourbon and soda. A little chat and they take a ride.
She needs to get home. The kids will be starving. She has four and it was a
long day at work.

          They park four doors down from her house. This house is empty. She
says the back porch has a nice swing. He plays it loose and soon they are
swinging. Looking down on her he avoids eye contact. Looking them in the
eye means love and he isn’t here for that.

          She’s disappointing. She’s sound and movement galore, but no heat.
He is here to escape that cold mackerel fillet he left in Vero Beach. She can
walk her little ass the rest of the way home.

          Eighty-five miles per hour back to the bar. It’s half past seven and
records are in play. Fat chick now has ugly girlfriend with her. They both
smile. Bet they know the box score. That was a single and he’s chasing
home runs.

          Invincibility is closing in. He would scream for joy, but that would cause
him problems. He keeps smiling big. Fat chick and ugly are now in the mix,
though this hole will be dry in another run and he doesn’t want to waste his

          ‘Jack please.’ He flicks a finger in the direction of the shot glasses.
Smiles everyone, smiles, we can’t let our fans down. Medicate this, Dr.

          Bartender sets it down and he grabs it. Another shot is down and it’s
toilet time. Damn, mirrors are wall to wall in this bathroom. He takes a

          A few extra pounds are present; no wonder fat chick is smiling. The
hair is looking as good as ever with no gray speckling the jet-black mass. The
teeth are slightly yellowed. Damn I’m ugly, but I’m oh so smooth. Pecker
check while pissing reveals need for quick wipe down. Sordid little monkey
had a hole full of jelly.

          Back at the bar he’s plotting. Cute number on the end isn’t interested.
Damn those extra pounds. He’s thinking spicy. A feminine guy at the back
table might be a treat. Eye contact is made. He blinks at the door. The
girly boy is in and heads out. He’ll wait a few and play it down. Fat
chick and ugly are clueless.

          He walks out with cigar in hand, so the infield won’t realize he’s playing
in the outfield. It’s a short hop to cheap motel. He rented a room for the
evening; records need home field advantages for breaking. They walk through
the front door playfully chatting about girly boy’s back door.

          He’s in a soft spot. Girly boy is playing it deep. It’s not a complete
loss thanks to girly boy’s enthusiasm. He speeds up the delivery. No time
to waste on this at bat. Another single goes in the book. He wants to be
Bonds, not Rose.

          A kiss on girly boy’s ass cheek and he sends him on his way with a
reminder that discretion is the better part of valor. Time to hit another spot. Fat
chick and ugly won’t be going anywhere. He’s at ninety miles per hour and
he’s closer to Lauderdale.

          ‘I think I’ll have a Jack on ice.’ This bartender is an all star. Ulysses
S. Grant will keep it that way. This place is rolling huge. He washes down
his shamrock pill with the Jack.

          He’s dancing with a pretty nasty girl. Her smile is crooked but her teeth
look like diamonds. They move close together so Peter Pecker can pitch his
proposition. Her agent, Ms. Delirium, says to take it. They ease to a
table in the back.

          He’s in a squeeze play. She swallows. Nice nasty girl, he thinks. He
buys her a drink and slips back over to the bar. Rolling huge, this place
is rolling huge.

          The bartender slides him a Jack before he can signal for it. Ulysses
always elevates bartenders’ games. A high woman is giggling beside him.
She’s waiting on her boyfriend, who doesn’t exist. A couple of drinks later
she’s all but begging to be fondled.

          This one goes back to the hotel to take her slot in the batting order.
She’s excitable in a sedate sort of way. He offers a shamrock; she’ll try
anything. They’re going to roll huge.

          This one’s a pincushion. She’ll take it anywhere she can get it. He
thinks ear and Peter Pecker laughs. C’mon Jack, time is wasting and records
have to fall, Pecker says. He’s finished and she’s unconscious.

          Damned curse of the high women strikes again. He picks her up and
takes her outside. A few moments later, he puts her down behind the dumpster.
She’ll have one to tell the grandkids. He laughs, wishing his grandma had
been that interesting.

          He’s tired and the head is spinning. There is enough get up to go run
down fat chick and ugly. An even six with a double header and a girly boy to
boot is impressive, even by his standards. He’ll break no records tonight.
He laughs. ‘Guess I’ll have to try again next week.’

© 2004 Bill Turner

Bill Turner is a former newspaper columnist, policy analyst and was a
bipolar drunk. He is still bipolar, but doesn’t drink now and his manic
episodes are limited to the written word. Bill’s fiction has been published
online and in print. Readers can contact Bill at

© 2004 Underground Voices