10/20/10
His fingers are drumming against the neck of the bottle along to the garbled notes of "Here Comes Your Man" pouring out of the cracked car windshield. "Drumming" may be too generous, since he misses the beat by so many seconds that he appears to be listening to another song entirely. Beneath his breath, Dave mumbles along to the jangling guitar, making that same "bneer-neer-nee-ner-neer-ne-ner" noise he makes when he sings along to Marshall Crenshaw. He stops before the song is over, though, to place a hand against the hood in an attempt to stay upright. My eyes widen and I try to steady my view of the horizon, of the cars zooming by in doublevision.
Dave huffs. "I'll be damned if I don't like where we ended up tonight."
I look at him, puzzled, and ask, "You mean with the car wrapped around a bike rack?"
"Perspective, amigo. The tape player works, y'know," then yelling with his hand stretched heavenward, "Praise be to the Goddamn Almighty!"
"Dave, man, with our luck tonight, you probably shouldn't add blasphemy to the list of things the Almighty already hates us for."
He blinks and twists his head like a quizzical lizard. "Hates us? Who hates us? Last I checked, this sort of thing -- this whole reading minds thing -- amounts to a fucking miracle. Hell, I've never been more sure some big dude up there is looking out for us. It's like I fell asleep as a nobody and woke up as the Charles Fucking Xavier for the barfly set." Dave laughs, but it quickly becomes a hiccup and then morphs into acid reflux. "'sides, Seely, we have an excuse to get shitcanned on the reg, which we would have been doing anyway. Big fuckin' sacrifice."
There is truth behind his drunken ramblings. There usually is. I am sure it's the truth I smell along with the Jack Daniels.
"One damn thing follows another"
"I like to pretend those potatos growing sprouts in my kitchen are an intentional science experiment and not the product of laziness. I mean, the trash can is like three feet away, and I can't bring myself to touch them. It's like the fucking Smithsonian exhibit for fossilized vegetables."
His fingers flex backwards as he tilts the bottle and prepares it for flight, gauging the height and gravity and drag as best as his drunken eyes can manage. And upon release, the empty container soars neck over end in repeat until it collides with the wall, exploding like jagged fireworks. His hoot of victory, the spray of shards, the stain of whiskey on the wall; one final flare of deviance before he passes out against the windshield wiper.
His fingers are drumming against the neck of the bottle along to the garbled notes of "Here Comes Your Man" pouring out of the cracked car windshield. "Drumming" may be too generous, since he misses the beat by so many seconds that he appears to be listening to another song entirely. Beneath his breath, Dave mumbles along to the jangling guitar, making that same "bneer-neer-nee-ner-neer-ne-ner" noise he makes when he sings along to Marshall Crenshaw. He stops before the song is over, though, to place a hand against the hood in an attempt to stay upright. My eyes widen and I try to steady my view of the horizon, of the cars zooming by in doublevision.
Dave huffs. "I'll be damned if I don't like where we ended up tonight."
I look at him, puzzled, and ask, "You mean with the car wrapped around a bike rack?"
"Perspective, amigo. The tape player works, y'know," then yelling with his hand stretched heavenward, "Praise be to the Goddamn Almighty!"
"Dave, man, with our luck tonight, you probably shouldn't add blasphemy to the list of things the Almighty already hates us for."
He blinks and twists his head like a quizzical lizard. "Hates us? Who hates us? Last I checked, this sort of thing -- this whole reading minds thing -- amounts to a fucking miracle. Hell, I've never been more sure some big dude up there is looking out for us. It's like I fell asleep as a nobody and woke up as the Charles Fucking Xavier for the barfly set." Dave laughs, but it quickly becomes a hiccup and then morphs into acid reflux. "'sides, Seely, we have an excuse to get shitcanned on the reg, which we would have been doing anyway. Big fuckin' sacrifice."
There is truth behind his drunken ramblings. There usually is. I am sure it's the truth I smell along with the Jack Daniels.
"One damn thing follows another"
"I like to pretend those potatos growing sprouts in my kitchen are an intentional science experiment and not the product of laziness. I mean, the trash can is like three feet away, and I can't bring myself to touch them. It's like the fucking Smithsonian exhibit for fossilized vegetables."
His fingers flex backwards as he tilts the bottle and prepares it for flight, gauging the height and gravity and drag as best as his drunken eyes can manage. And upon release, the empty container soars neck over end in repeat until it collides with the wall, exploding like jagged fireworks. His hoot of victory, the spray of shards, the stain of whiskey on the wall; one final flare of deviance before he passes out against the windshield wiper.
