I'm at the bar. In itself, normal.
The drinking has already started. I like to let things settle down before I show up. I don’t do the “after work” pass, I do “after midnight.” It’s a self-selected crowd: I don’t like to think of them as, necessarily, “the unemployed,” or “alcoholics,” or try to explain how they are able to stay out so late. I just admire their sense of purpose. I wish I knew what I wanted out of life half as much as the girl drinking whiskey while her boyfriend enjoys a glass of red wine. What a beautiful alternate cliché that would be.
For a week night at my local dive, it’s crowded. There’s one seat open in the place, and I take it. I notice vexedly that it’s next to the most beautiful woman ever given life. Frankly, I’m not in the mood. But I definitely need a seat.
So I chat with the bartender, I chat with the regulars nearby. I steal a few glances at the M.B.W.E.G.L., who has her face turned away from me. All I see is ridiculously luxurious but seemingly real hair surrounding ridiculous but real knockers. She’s also surrounded by admirers, guys who seem to be lined up to take a crack at her. There are three simultaneous “Let me buy you a beer, honey” beers growing warm in front of her. She is under siege. I hate this bullshit. Admittedly, she rather stands out in the gloom, but so does the Budweiser sign. You can’t take it personal.
Of course, she suddenly turns to me with a sodden smile. Her face shocks me with its classic lines. I try a classic line of my own: “Cheers,” I say, relying on the essential fraternity of drunk people. She says, “Cheers.” We clink. A murmur goes through the crowd. I’m at it again. It’s awful, but it’s worth it.
by Jack, September 19, 2003 1:11 PM | More from Drinking & Women
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