4.21.97

Somewhere, Everywhere, Nowhere...

Ok, so, the Drinking Man's single... again.

At least, I think so. Probably.

So, I'm working the bar tonight, a usually off night but we're promoting a really good Ska-punk show (Reel Big Fish w/ 22 Jacks). It's all ages, I'm doing the bar upstairs where the kids aren't allowed. There are about 300 people at the show. Maybe 30 of them are old enough to drink. You could paint a picture of me being back there and title it "Bartender Taking It Up The Ass".

One of the few is a regular. During a loud moment she shrieks 'why are you so grumpy?' I pull out my wallet, open it upside down and shake nothing out of it. She nods.

I'm not really having a bad night, though. Fact is, I really dig both these bands, and I'll be happy as a pig in shit to sit here for a few hours, do damn near nothing, fulfill my brief usual duties afterwards, and walk with a measly forty bucks. Hey, as I always say, it beats working for a living. Counting wages, it's still about $15+ an hour. I'll take it.. And I'll wiggle my hips and smile when the band sings, "I hate you, fuck you, leave me alone!" (Even if they do think that song sucks. We all know better, huh?)

But, Kerrie didn't call.

She came into town Friday. She left a message that she would come to the show at DV8 that night. She didn't. She did not even call to say why not.
She was out with her best friend, the same girl that was at one past point her lover. I waited until 3 a.m. for a phoned explanation, then gave up. I knew she was trashed somewhere, most likely asleep by then. I woke up the next day, waited for the same phoned explanation. Hours passed. None.
Gave up again. Convinced myself it meant nothing, though in what way I wasn't quite as sure.

I went to work. She shows up at 10 p.m. or so. She looks like hell, though she still looks gorgeous. I can tell she's still recovering from the previous night. I wonder, in the back of my mind, who kept her up all night drinking. I know that's how we spent our first night She will barely talk to me, but her smile is genuine. She calls herself a flake. I acknowledge that reference with playful, yet bitter, intentions. She says she's going back to her friend's house to sleep and will call before she comes to see me Sunday.

"I'll believe that when I see it," I smile.

As she leaves, I tell her I hope she feels better. Her smile was weak as she left, but the hungry faces in her wake were not.

And this is approximately the message I left on her machine Sunday night, around 6:00 p.m.: "Well, six o'clock, which means I've been waiting for you for about 5 and a half hours. Guess I feel like an asshole. Maybe not. I actually thought you would at least call sometime today. I had a present for you, but it's probably best this way, I realized after a bit of house hunting I can't afford it anyway. I assume you won't do this, but I'd like you to call me. I'd at least like to know how I suddenly ended up at the ass-end of you list of priorities?"

So, tonight, Kerrie didn't call.

As I said, the Drinking Man's Single, again.

At least, I think so. I've declared myself so, anyway.

What's worse, I've been thinking about Shannon all night, missing her teeth and the scent of her skin.

Fuck, I wasn't going to write about this. I quit drinking for a week and everything fell to shit. It seems almost as though things pass more aptly through a haze.

As usual I'll finish with a quoted anecdote:

A guy tonight asked me a typical question: "What sort of training did you do to do this?"

"What, bartending?"

"Yeah."

"Years of drinking," I said.

"Oh."

"Spend enough time in bars," I say, " someone will eventually offer you a job."

It's true. It's how I started. I've seen it more times than I can count.

But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because nothing really does.
None of it matters because my dog may be dying. Because in a little over a week I will have nowhere to live. Because no one called. Because everything I've ever loved are now just things I miss. Because all I recognize in this new, crisp spring air that flourishes outside are things I can no longer relate to.

Hm.

Cheers.

wwood