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BILL TURNER
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 chances. ‘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. Shrinkwrap. 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 peek. 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 solutionwrite@hotmail.com. |
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© 2004 Underground Voices |
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