almost okay

WINTER'S A COMIN'...
A Drinkin' Flashback to Last February

I had planned to stay sober yesterday, and was somewhat disappointed in my lack of resolve, so those first three at The BAR went down with some difficulty as I began to understand the scope of my drinking problem. I didn't enjoy them, really, just waited for the alcohol to take hold as the furnace there blew hot air, and cigarettes, though few at the time, added to my general discomfort. A guy at the end of the bar waiting for his carryout food also drummed his hands on the bar top loudly in time with the music which the bartender had played on the jukebox, depressing tunes which I already didn't like but were made even worse by his restless, nervous thumping.

I looked into The Emerald from inside the BAR before leaving, but decided that I needed an entire change of venue, so I carefully steered my truck north a couple of blocks and walked over to Huey's Buoy. I parked my ass on the first seat in the place, near the door and just to the right of a trio of mongoloid biker types who were obviously towards the end of an afternoon of drinking. Lorelei met me there with a pint of Labatt and a glass of ice water, my usual, asked me how I was doing.

“Cold,” I said as I rubbed my hands together.

“Come sit down at the end by me,” she suggested.

“That's the smoking section. I think I'll stay here.”

The bikers weren't smoking, thank god, a minor miracle in itself, so I settled in and started observing. The guy nearest me stood the entire time I was there. He had a short goatee and longish gray hair in a pony tail topped with a baseball cap, a big gut, working hands with cracked nails. He seemed to be holding court as his buddies looked to him for entertainment and knowledge. The guy in the middle, the most normal-looking of the three, was clean shaven and had large ears that stuck straight out from his head like an elf. He wore a black varsity jacket embroidered with a company name and switched from beer to Bloody Mary when their food arrived. The third guy who sat on the far end of the group was tiny, almost dwarfish in appearance and size, sporting a thick black mustache, a baseball cap and glasses, and his stubby thick fingers could barely grasp his bottle of beer without using both hands. Their overall mood was jovial and kind, probably due to many previous libations, and when their dinner came, they set upon it like hungry lions.

Lorelei emerged from the kitchen and headed our way, holding high two large platters topped with steamed lobsters, red as rose petals, gorgeous in their simplicity as food. The guys perked up and I found myself feeling a little jealous of their shameless excess. She put them before 'Goatee' and 'Ears' before retrieving a cold plate from the fridge for 'Dwarf'. “There's forks and lemons in the buckets,” she told them, “Need anything else?”

“C'...C'rona,” slurred Goatee before draining his bottle and thumping it onto the bar.

That's when Ears decided to have a Bloody Mary. In less than a minute Goatee had devoured the meat from the tail, twisting it onto the tines of his fork and holding it up for the group to see. “Shee,” he said to them, “Jush twhirl id like shpagetti!” From the look of things, Ears didn't have a lot of experience eating lobster, was looking to Goatee for instructions, the mechanics of it being somewhat of a chore for a first timer who doesn't want to make a mess. Goatee flipped the carcass over. “Brainsh,” he said as he growled low in his throat with pleasure, “Mmmm, brainsh. Yoo ghotta eat th' brainsh. Mmmmm.” He scooped out every moist bit from the shell, sucking at the scraps noisily, then moved on to the claws. Ears was still working on his tail, and Dwarf was gingerly picking at his cocktail shrimp, squinting through tiny eyes and chuckling evilly at the two of them. Goatee tried using the hinged nutcracker on the claws, but gave up, his hands slick with drawn butter. “Shee theezsh clawzsh...clawzsh,” he stuttered before putting one in his mouth and crunching down on it, cracking it open to free the sweet white meat inside. “Mmmm, clawzsh...mmmm.”

Dwarf laughed at him, and Ears took a jibe or two as well. “Wanna, wanna shrimp?” asked Dwarf with apparent glee.

“Nhope, clawzsh...mmmm,” said Goatee.

“Need more butter?” asked Ears, “We can get you some butter to take home.” He laughed as Goatee licked his fingers and sucked every ounce of meat from the claws.

“Crab, crab claws,” giggled Dwarf.

“Nhot crhab! Lobshter!” slurred Goatee, “Nho chrab...nhot yed...”

Goatee had finished and Ears was just then working on the claws, carefully cracking them and passing on the goo inside the carcass. “Want mine?” he asked Goatee, pointing to it with his knife.

“Yooo eadit,” said Goatee, “Itsh ghoood...th' brainsh, mmmmm....”

“Wanna, wanna shrimp?” asked Dwarf again.

When they had finished the main course, Lorelei returned to scoop up the debris. Goatee was carefully wiping up the bar, removing all traces of spilled butter and saliva with a paper napkin. “How, HowdIdhue?” he asked her.

“Better than most,” she said with a grin and a chuckle. “You guys need anything else? Dessert?”

“I'll haff shum shoop,” said Goatee, “I had th' hwon...I'll haff th' hother hwon.”

“The bisque?”

“Yeah...bishk.”

Lorelei came back with a cup of crawfish bisque and a thick slab of cornbread, which Goatee ate greedily, slurping noisily at the bisque and forcing crumbling chunks of the cornbread into his mouth. “Mmmmm...ishgoood....mmmm,” he murmured to no one in particular. Then to me, “Th' foodsh ghood here.” I agreed. Goatee rambled on, “Whee bhen, bhenda thad hother bhar...th' Shtone, Shtone ...shumthin...”

“The Stone House?” I asked, “Down by the fairgrounds?”

“Yeah, yeah,” nodded Dwarf, his head bobbing quickly. “That's it.”

“I was only there a couple of times,” I told them. “The bathroom's downstairs, right?” They just looked at me bewildered. “You gotta go downstairs to piss, right?”

“Whee wernt there that lhong,” said Goatee.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Dwarf with a smile, “I think you're right. It's downstairs.”

“I pisshed out bhy th' c'har...” said Goatee, apparently just remembering.

“Whereyoofhrom?” Goatee asked me, “I'ma Shwede. Shwede fhrum C'hambohdea. My shishter and ghirlfren live in Haweyee. I alwaysh gho to Alhashka to eat... mheat... mmmm... Vhenishon shawshidge...” He held his hands up with index fingers pointed about eighteen inches apart to indicate the length of the tasty treat.

“Oh, yeah,” I agreed, “That's good stuff. My uncle hunts deer all the time.”

“Whereyoofhrom? I'ma I'ma Shwede.” Just then I noticed that Goatee had a small blurry tattoo on his right hand at the base of his thumb, a pentagram inside a circle, a pagan symbol of worship that represents the five senses, also known by Christians as the devil's hoof print. “Fhrum C'a-C'hambodea.”

“You sure you don't want to take some butter home?” cracked Ears.

“How about dessert now?” asked Lorelei when she came back, Goatee finished with the last of the soup. “Key Lime pie? Peach cobbler?”

“Get 'im a peach, peach cobbler,” laughed Dwarf, thumbing down towards Goatee. “Cobbler.”

“Nhoh,” said Goatee, “Hime dhun.”

“Okay, I'll bring you your checks.”

Ears went to the bathroom and Dwarf moved down to Goatee, a heated discussion ensuing as to whether or not Ears was showing the proper amount of respect to Goatee, whether he'd been paying his fair share for the past two days or not. I gathered that Ears had been bunking at Goatee's house, either for work purposes or because he had been booted out by his old lady. When Ears came back, he said “You guys still talking about me? You going to buy my dinner?” This last comment directed to Goatee.

“Whell,” said Goatee, “Yoo shood bhy mhine. Yoo haffent shpent hany mhunny yhet.”

“What are you talking about,” protested Ears, “I bought drinks. I bought beer. I paid for lunch yesterday.”

“Bhutt yoo shtay ad mhy howsse, dhring mhy bheer, ead mhy fhoood,” said Goatee.

Along about that time, Mortimer was busily cracking some fresh oysters right in front of us, carefully prying them open and cutting the muscle loose from the shells.

“Arethozsh Blhew pointsh?” asked Goatee, “Theylook ghoood... mmmm... jhuicy...”

“Ah, no,” said Mortimer, “These are from Prince Edward's Island. I can't always get Blue Points this time of year.”

“Wheeshoodgedsum,” said Goatee, his appetite apparently still unsatisfied. “Theylook ghood.”

“You want some?” asked Lorelei.

“Nhahh...C'han, c'hanIpay th' chekh?”

“Sure,” she said, pointing out to Goatee that it was right in front of him on the bar.

“Whassid, whassidsay?” he asked.

“Thirty-nine-sixty-eight,” Lorelei told him. Goatee handed her two twenties, accepted the coin when she returned with his change and carefully peeled four wrinkled dollar bills from a wad of cash he had in his pocket to leave her for a tip - barely ten percent.

After they'd left, I told Mortimer, “You know, I'm always afraid that people lump me in with guys like that just by looking at me.” He just smiled, probably didn't hear me. Either that or he's an asshole.

When Lorelei came back to ask me if I wanted another one, my eyes were fixed on her boobs, which bounced magically up and down, perfect little handfuls of flesh. “I'm sorry,” I told her, “But I couldn't take my eyes off your boobs. I didn't mean to be rude.”

As she walked back down the bar she looked over her shoulder and said, “Now you're probably looking at my ass.”

“You don't really have an ass,” I told her honestly.

“I know,” she laughed.