(tbh)

tiocfaidh!

You walk into a lonely bar on your 21st birthday. You don’t need to count to find there to be five people in the place: yourself, barkeep, a man and woman, unengaged, but engaging in conversation, and some V-neck in corduroy pants in the back, kooky and plump. You ask for the first refreshment of your life down where you’re supposed to. Barkeep seems to take some pleasure in the situation, and gives you a little more than he oughta. You sit, alone, at a table nearest to that latter man. “Hey,” he motions for you to sit with him, “I’ve got some shit to say.” You squeeze into the booth opposite. “Young man,” he asks, “You got you a girlie yet”?

“No, sir”, you say, with cadence clearly marking a well-worn sentence. “Don’t know where to find ‘em, I reckon.”

The man before you takes a big sip off some yucky green-bottled spirit what seems to be perhaps the polar opposite of pepto-bismol, oy, judging by his dramatic, painful heaving and retching. Before you can ask him if he needs anything, he starts sputtering up like a wind-up doll, waxing and waning like the moon.

“Now, sonny boy, you rev your engine down at the checkout line of any decent American eatery, round these parts something like a Rally’s or Fatburger, ah, you get your horn squealing porcine, stereo booming cacophonous with that ‘Jackie and the Love-Birds’ or whatever it is you kids listen to in the dark these days, and if the rotor cuts vile, to be sure, some broad with flesh redder than a maraschino cherry will hop up into that exposed port of your Ford F-150, blather on incessant ‘bout that got-damned ‘Irish question.’” You attempt to cut in and are gregariously overthrown, as he continues, “Course on the other side of things you could whip that pickup truck down into some cesspool of acceptance, oy, Starbucks or equivalent, get you a 6’4 long broad who claims to be a Pisces, oy, gets what work she can’t funnel through a series of vacuum tubes down at Hank’s Oil Auto Parts.” He smiles and nods. “Type of girl might make your folks squirm when she starts pestering ‘em for vegan options at a holiday function, or something to that effect.” He licks his teeth from behind with his mouth wide open. You notice

“Now ‘at you got a couple girlies back there if they got a lick of sense between ‘em they’ll duke it out firm, like matted rats down where the asphalt halts, where that petrol spigot runs dry, listen kid, where man ventures only in the interest of becoming an animal.” He sips again from his dread tonic, and shudders vehemently like the ad-junkie he is. ”My money’s on the one what with good sense and a cell phone, oy, call a couple “plumbers” back there and do an impromptu Tennessee Williams ploy for an audience of one!” The old man slaps his knee. A lot

“Now you seem like a hat, and an ass at that. I doubt you to be forthright, possessing gall, and deeply I consider you withering. Frankly, I could tell it the minute I saw your face. Your eyes recede, your nose protrudes, your teeth form a scattershot array of popcorn kernels and little bits of starter’s paste, maybe the occasional yellowed bastard that hasn’t been shattered by your anomie-ridden diet. Alright, I don’t like you, and what I mean by that is, I don’t like your body. I think you’re hideous, and whether you wind up with the big girl or the red one, I figure she’ll be out to lunch the yoctosecond that dust settles. Long fucking lunch break, kid, cause she ain’t coming back, and I don’t need to know who ‘she’ is to know that to be the case.” W-

“Alright, for peace of mind, let’s go through it. You got a couple a’ babes back there hopping to a wartime rhythm, like some fucked-looking kangaroos. No boxing gloves here, kid, I know you can’t afford ‘em. Maybe the red girl goes in first, diving full steam ahead like cannon bull run. Maybe the big girl dodges it, maybe she was paying attention. She throws her glasses in a nearby bush, and rolls up the sleeves of her tasteful, unembellished t-shirt. Let’s say she starts spinning around, arms outstretched, like a polyester gyroscope, and let’s say she gets a couple licks in. Let’s say she finishes the job! Now you gotta look up at your protagonist, who has just claimed you as a prize. What the fuck are you gonna say here, that’s gonna justify your position in this little fucking social hierarchy, you little piece of shit? ‘I used to have some hobbies?’ Out with thee!”

“Ok! Let’s say the red bitch wins! Let’s say she pulls through with the hella-combo, haymaker, turns her opposition to cookie crumbles and mincemeat. You sad fucking clown. Who could you possibly be to her? moral fucking support? You’re at the end of your rope, enthusiast. Part of me yearns to catch you at the Bridge table, to extract every penny with the intangible luck of the draw I’d stake my life you don’t possess. Good riddance, sir, and please, close the door on your way out.”

You didn’t even get drunk. Your mom picks you up, and you lie and say you had a great time, got so into the vibe that you forgot to get visibly sloshed. She can tell you’re lying, but ain’t interested in you enough to badger you about it. As you fall prey to hypnos in your twin-sized bed, you shudder as you consider.