Written on 4/12/2022
Through the cryptic door I went into a maze of conference rooms, supply chambers, a locked security room and finally a restroom. Looking in the mirror at the saggy-chested silver-back hoodrat, I shook my squib head in disgust at the world whose leading denizens might describe such a creature as “a tiger.” I understand that it is how Modernity hates those who work with their hands among this hive of counter-intuition.
Back down the stairs I went and the bar was full with high-class uppity-ups. I saw my 20 ounce draft sitting back under the taps as Bond Babe took the orders from the gathered stylitude. Daddy Whorebucks was paying out for drinks for the Cornfed Broad, who was pleasingly attired in knee-shredded washed out jeans and a low cut white shirt, her shoulder length hair colored blonde and brown. I waited patiently as Daddy Whorebucks waddled off, food staining his white buttoned wineskin.
I was not about to sit down next to the twenty-something hooker. Bond Babe looked at me as she took orders, looked at the empty seat, and spoke volumes with her eyes and a nod of her head, ‘Go ahead, sit next to her!’
I pulled the chair out a bit as Bond Babe placed my beer and I tested her, “What do I owe you for this?”
“Oh, you’re paid. I’ll bring your change—enjoy, my friend.” as her eyes slid like feline slits towards the powdered cleavage to my right. I did not sit next to, or look at the Cornfed Broad, who sipped a vodka and lime, but kept the chair between us and stood.
I ate salt, drank the big draft and another, and ordered another. Finding that I had service on Flip, I called some fighters to speak to them about the Man Weekend Meet above Knoxville.
More beer and salt.
Lynn sent me a text that a father who I had written advice for concerning his son being bullied had implemented some aspect of that whacked out screed and was pleased.
More beer and salt.
Dynamo Homo staggered off with his detail and more upscale beautiful people came in, known by name by Bond Babe. Every girl with a man was slightly better looking and thinner than Cornfed, the broad to my right, but older. She was in her mid 20s, they in their mid 30s. She was here to pick up their crumbs, the fat winesacks and old lonely men...this was obvious. The women shunned her—all except for Bond Babe.
I ordered another beer and Bond Babe came to the bar, spread her hands on the counter, looked at Cornfed and said, “Another?”
Before the girl answered, Bond Babe, looked at me with a sly lip, a grin hovering between “I’m disappointed” and “are you gay” and slid her eyes in her unmoving head to indicate that it would be rude for me to continue ignoring Cornfed.
Well, we were too shunned creatures of an unclutured and unsuccessful kind. So I said, “Please, whatever the lady here wants.”
Bond Babe winked at me and grinned, “Alright, My Friend!”
Provisionally not gay, I decided on whiskey dick as a fail-safe. Once I top 12 beers and drinks combined, hydraulic function starts going south. My better self did not want to go where Daddy Whorebucks had been and also realized that the savage within, already imagining this broad with a toddler on each hip and an infant clinging to her hair hauling back two buckets of water for my morning coffee…well, that he liked big butts.
A big beer.
Salt.
‘Still not drunk!’
I ordered two shots of Maker’s Mark and drank them quick. Now that was better, brain damage on the way—‘Oh no, she’s looking better, turning, smiling…’
‘I need to get to bed, because this big ass next to me is getting wider in my mind’s eye and she keeps smiling—don’t, yeah, did…’
“Sure, Baby, you want another?”
She smiles and blows a kiss over her straw and says, “Please, sit.”
I sit down and Bond Babe notices and can’t wait to play Young Cupid with Old Stupid, “What will it be, My Friend?”
I wanted to say, “this bitch handcuffed to the bedboard so she doesn’t make off with my wallet while I’m in post-coital coma.” But, noting that I was hungry, which means I had drunk enough light beer to get kicked out of Rick’s keto state, I looked at the big olives on the counter, already stuck with toothpicks, and recalled that Rick said I could eat them.
“I’d like an olive, and another shot.”
She smiled, “To eat, you want to eat the olive?”
“Well, yeah, Rick said I can eat olives.”
Looking around, she smiles, “Who is Rick?”
“My dietician, I suppose.”
“Are you on any medication?” says Cornfed. “Do you need to take your medicine?”
Wow, being the paramour of daddy Whorebucks must require extensive nursing skills.
“Oh, know, I don’t have pressure or anything. The olives just look nice and salty—haven’t eaten much the past two days.”
Bond Babe winks at Cornfed in a way that suggested that they liked me and would have felt badly if I stroked out while behind that wide ass up in the compute-haunted room.
They smile at each other and Bond Babe, declares, “How about an Old Fashioned?”
“Oh, my youngest son, that’s his favorite drink—he’s a money guy, like these people!”
“Would you like one, My Friend?”
“Sure.”
Cornfed touched my shoulder, as if congratulating me for finally loosening up, and began to ask me about my travels and my family and the young men I had been talking to on the phone. We never asked each other’s name. I looked at her body a lot and she’d smile. Noting that she was not from here, I asked where she was from and she said, “Decatur.”
“Oh, named after Stephan Decatur: war hero of Thomas Jefferson’s declared police action against the Barbary Pirates in North Africa—died in a duel later in life, I think.”
She smiled, “Wow, I’ve lived in Decatur all of my life—twenty-four years—and nobody every told me that, not even in school. People in Decatur are stupid. That’s why I come here. I can at least meet people who think and have brains and do more than get high.”
We talked for sometime as my mind stop making memories and wandered within, the bed calling, the evil demon in my loins tranquilized. I paid up, excused myself from the darling duo, having spend $140 and headed for the elevators, my final memory of the night.
To be continued in Mammy Train…
