Nonculture

We’d finally been kicked out of Lou’s Lounge one too many times, so we found ourselves drinking at a Houlihan’s restaurant on a Tuesday.  Houlihan’s is one of those semi-upper end franchise deals with the smoking patio that has J. Geils Band pumping out of the wall speaker.  They know their demographic, and Chevy and I are not a part of it.  The thin metal chairs hurt my ass, and the imitation sandstone tables and modern glasses hip the place up, so they charge more for drinks.  All those things really do, in Florida, is cause condensation to fall off of the glass and make a mess everywhere.  So I shuffle my ass cheeks around a lot and ask for extra napkins every few minutes. 

“They do have better looking waitresses,” Chevy says, as some nubile nineteen year old drops off our Captains.  We both watch her skip back inside to the bar.

“Than Lou’s?  That’s not a stretch.”  Lou’s didn’t even have waitresses.

“No, but all of these near-20’s hotties in the slinky black outfits might make the overpriced drinks worth it.”

Without any waitresses around to look at, we survey the patio.  There is a table of late thirty-something women to the side of us, two spots down.  More concerned with pounding our rum and cokes, we choose not to talk to them.  But several other vultures have begun to form a circle around them; the 40-something divorcees smell drunk meat. 

We watch the table for a short while.  They’re doing the Glory Days routine; stories of college go around, and you have your typical ex-frat washout with his quieter friend who probably got beat up by guys like him back in the day, but now makes more money so Frat Washout clings on to the tail of his slick sports coat.  Then you have Banker Bob.  Rail thin with a head of thick, white hair, Bob is a functional alcoholic and a very sharp dresser who is practically a staple here at Houlis.  Bob is also blessed with the gift of gab; give him an inch and he’ll take off your whole ear.

Seated, you have the Drunk Meat.  The ex-sorority sister, the obligatory mousy one who just gives eyes, and then the too-tipsy one who keeps catching herself right before spilling what a slut she was back in college.

“I know!  I know!  We’d have these great parties after the games,” she’d say, “this one time in my friend’s dorm room, we were partying with a few guys and someone brought out a dildo…”

There would be a bit of silence as she thrust her drink into her mouth to shut it up. 

One of the other women would then pipe in some inane question to the men, like:

“Did you play any sports?” 

The men would fumble over themselves to rattle off what they did.

Bob, however, would just listen.

I am saddened to see the demographic that might be me, sooner rather than later.  Partly because I didn’t go to a college that had any sports at all; my string of failing out of community colleges wouldn’t compete.  I’d never get laid in a situation like this.  Even with these harpies.  And I hoped I’d never have to try; I’d rather drink myself into a vomiting stupor than play this game.  Not that I didn’t do that as it was already.  Drink myself into stupors, that is.

“See what we’ve been missing by going to dive bars, Chevy?”  I say to him, just out of earshot of the Vultures and Drunk Meat.

“Fuck it,” he says.  “It’s your fault we’re here anyway.”

“Exactly.  It was my punch that squared Jeanne right in the nose, you errant ass motherfucker,” I say.  Chevy has a hidden angry streak that comes out sometimes when he drinks.  Not to say that is unusual for anybody.  It just so happens he also has horrible aim with his fists, and his last attempt at a swing had missed the drunken Indian he was trying to hit and instead gave our bartender a bloody nose.  The straw that broke Lou’s Lounge’s back.

“Whatever.  You in a gambling mood tonight?”

“I’m always in a gambling mood.”

 ”The table there, it’s interesting.”  He nods towards the middle-aged dating game a few tables away.  “I bet I can predict who gets laid.  Loser pays the tab.”

“Say what.”

“You have three on three there.  Who’s gonna score with who?”  His eyes are lit at the thought of wagering on it.

“Unless it’s me with that slinky nineteen year old in there,” I point at the bar door, “it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me.”

“Nah,” he says, “I mean, do you think Bob can hold his own with these guys?”

I twist my head to look back over at the table where the birds of prey are still circling the carrion.  Banker Bob did look sharp. The other two schmucks were prototypical; tucked in button downs with chest hair showing and cocky.  Vultures wishing they were roosters; just bobbing their heads along and fluffing feathers at each other with no real hen house to claim.  Waiting for the prey to die or at least be immobile before picking at the eyes.

“I don’t know, those guys might have twenty years on Bob,” I tell Chevy.

“Persistence,” he says.  “He’s got the years to tough out the long ones.  You can’t trust his slurring, he’s quick witted.”

“So you say Bob scores first?”

“Hell no!  I bet he takes them all home, and those hyenas standing there go home empty handed.”

“I see them more as Vultures.  Definitely cowardly, like scared, starving birds.”

“Hyenas, vultures, what’s the difference?  They’re both scavengers.”

“You got a point with that, but Bob taking all three?  That’s a tall bet.  You dying to lose?”

“I’ll gamble any odds anytime.”  He holds out his hand to shake on it.  I take it.
“Done,” I say, hoping he actually winds up winning this one despite the fact that this tab was likely to near triple digits at this ridiculous franchise bar with its ridiculous wildlife.

Our firm little waitress refills us and we go back to discussing our press idea, work or lack thereof, and other things.  The buzz is kicking in nicely tonight and there’s not a lot of humidity.  It helps keep the head clear so that it doesn’t get weighed down with the alcohol and all that water filled air that makes it so hard to breathe and drink.  The only problem so far tonight is my sore left ass, but there’s little to be done about that, I figure, except switch over to the right.  The sun has fully set but the mosquitoes are light, and on the wall speaker J. Geils has been replaced by the Go-Go’s.

“My band used to cover this song,” I say, as I pull the lime from my drink and throw it on the table where it rests with a pile of other limes in a bath of pooled condensation.  I’ve told our young wonder of nature in black three times “no lime“, and every time there’s lime.  I guess when you’re a beautiful infant on top of the world you don’t need to be on top of the small things, like your tip.

“Vacation.  Good song.” Chevy says, taking a healthy drink.

“Yeah, we punked it up and shit.  Then this band named Mu330 stole it after we opened up for them.”

Chevy just nods.  He hates punk, and probably has no idea what a Mu330 is.  He sets down his drink, getting back on the publishing topic.  “So, we get the ISBNs, incorporate, and set up printing with Doubleday.  Fidlar, whatever.”

“Which is only about five hundred out of pocket,” I say.

“We gotta print some real shit.  No pussy shit.  I want writing that tears the ass out of the reader – gritty, real.”

“Transgressive.  No pussy shit,” I say.  “We’re looking at about another four or five hundred a run, maybe six.  Limited, with shared marketing push.”

“Alright.”

“I already got a site in the works.”

“And Rommel has the legal side covered.”

“All that shit,” I say.

“Good.  No pussy shit though.”

“Not unless it’s our own.”

“Oh shit – check it out,” Chevy says, as his eyebrows shoot up and he nods at something behind me.

I look back over at the road kill table.  Bob is making his play.

“These are my two daughters,” he’s telling the gaggle of over-the-hill women.  He’s got his wallet open and is leaning over the table, completely cutting off the other two men.  It’s working on the women, they’re gushing – “oh, they’re sooo cute!”  The vultures look disoriented.  Something alive has strayed into their circle.

“They’re my little flowers,” Bob says.  “Of course, they don’t live with me.  But I love ‘em both.”  Bob puts his hand to his chest as he says this to drive his point home, and the three women say “Awwww” in unison.

I turn back to Chevy for a second to tell him that goddamn, Bob is a smooth cat.

“So why do they call you Banker Bob?” the sorority sister asks.  You’d never know she used to be a cheerleader; she’s a lumpy sack of sag with a huge perm and thighs that could choke her son’s soccer coach to death.

Bob half turns and points his finger towards the sky.  “You see that building over there?”

“The Wachovia building, yeah.”

“Well, that’s where I work.”

“Ohhh!” the gaggle says in unison.

“I’m the parking attendant in the garage.”

For some reason the gaggle finds this funny, and they all laugh.  I realize that if they are laughing at that kind of shit already, Bob was in.  I’m not the only one to notice it; the hyenas take a step back and start talking about football loudly, trying to play off the fact that Bob has just outplayed them.

“Damn, looks like you’re getting close to winning your drink,” I tell Chevy.

“I already have, you’ll see,” he says to me smugly.

“Not yet.  Bob has to take his pick; there is still a one to one ratio.”

“No, you’re missing it.  They’re pussy shits,” he says.

“Huh?”

“They’re pussy shits – they’ve already given up – the hyenas.  Bob doesn’t have to pick.  Bob’s goin’ beyond the ménage tonight!  Boo Ya – Pussy Shiiiits!” he yells.

I look over towards them, and as I do, the would-be roosters look over at us.  Shit, this buzz was getting on pretty good.  Had they heard us?

“Looks about right,” I say.  “Might want to tone the voice down.  I bet they actually call the cops at a place like this if there’s a fight.  If we get kicked out of this joint we’ll be stuck drinking at the goddamn burrito stand.”

“PUSSY SHIIIIITS!” Chevy says loudly, with his arms outstretched, though he’s looking at nobody in particular.

The entire road kill scene looks our way.  Banker Bob recognizes us.

“Hey boys, good to see you.  Got a little problem over there?”  He asks, making it sound unassuming, but I am positive it is accusing.  I’m still trying to figure out how he pulled that off when Chevy replies,

“Hey Bob.  We’re good, how about you?”

“Excellent, excellent.  Couldn’t be better, son.”

I raise my glass, Bob nods and smiles and we all toast – all of us except for the vultures, and I realize that Bob has just diplomatically told us to keep it down and even managed to get a toast out of it.  The ladies pay rapt attention to him as he goes on about how he lost the house and the car in the divorce, but still, his wife is a good woman and cares for the kids real well.  I turn back around, feeling a burning in my pocket where Chevy’s half of the tab is.

“Pussy shits,” Chevy snorts into his drink.

Our waitress is named Maria, we find out.  Chevy is trying to set me up with her.  I’m more interested in my drink.  Not that she isn’t cute; I’m just an alcoholic.

“He used to play in bands, you know,” he says to her as she delivers our fifth or sixth round.  I have lost count.

She doesn’t bite; not an iota of interest.

“That band, Em-you-3 stole a song from him,” he twists.  Not a clue what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t care.

“Really,” she says, picking up the pile of limes from the center of the table.

“Yeah.  Go Go’s.  Right?” he looks over at me.  He knew damn well I wasn’t any more interested in talking about it than she was hearing about it, but he brought it up anyway.

“Something like that,” I say.  The waitress and I grin at each other; sorry mine says, damn right you are, I’m busy hers says.

“Fresh round in ten minutes?” she says to neither of us, looking off into the parking lot.

“Yeah,” we both exhale simultaneously.  I add napkins to the order.  Sometimes, drinking is a chore, but it’s not a duty you decline.  There is something of a resigned honor in accepting that you know your next move is not a wise one, but you are going to make that move anyway.

Maria slips back into the bar.  I look back over to the Drunk Meat, and Bob is seated at the table with them, which is good for him.  Frat Washout and Successful Sportscoat Guy are staring us down, which is bad for us.  They can probably take us even though we have them by a few years.  They look like they work out, and we are way too boozed up and out of shape from hard drinking and general malnutrition.  We had a lifetime of hard labor on our side, but even those muscles go soft sitting in front of a typewriter every day and night.

“Look at these d-bags,” Chevy says.  It’s not loud enough for them to hear, but reading his lips wouldn’t be that difficult.

“What’s up guys?” Chevy says to them, a little louder now, offering a smile that wasn’t really a smile.

He was drunk already.  I set down my rum and slyly palm my lighter off of the table.  Not that it would keep me from breaking my knuckles, I’d just always been taught to hold a lighter in your fist before dotting somebody in the eye.

“You guys got a problem?” says over-the-hill frat guy.

I shake my head and wave them off. Though part of me wouldn’t mind a fight so much, it’s been a long time.

“Why would you ask that?” Chevy asks, turning their antagonism around.  “You heard Bob – we’re just having a drink here, fellas.”  When Chevy says fellas, one eyebrow raises and his mouth goes into a one-sided grin.

“You calling us gay?” Says Sportscoat Guy.

“If you two keep looking over here, there’s going to be trouble,” says Frat Guy.

Sportscoat puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder,

“Let’s go inside,” he says.

Suddenly I hear the scrape of a metal chair behind me.  I grip the lighter and flex my arm and begin to turn, then finally realize it was Bob several tables away.

“HEY! Guys, guys!  This is a family place!” he injects, the slurred voice of reason.  “Now, if you need to arm wrestle or something, take it off the patio.  Go on!”  He makes a swooping arm motion to usher us into the lot, almost falling out of his chair as he does so.  The mousy one grabs him and helps him right himself.  “Thank you, darlin’,” he says to her.

“We’re just trying to have a drink here, Bob.  How are you doing over there?” Chevy says.

“Excellent son, excellent,” he says, raising his drink, and again, Bob has made his point.  And again, Chevy has managed to have the exact same conversation with him.  I began to feel like this was all planned, right down to Bob getting the mousy one to help him out.

The hyenas move past us and take the door into the bar.  I put my lighter back on the table.  Chevy laughs, and behind me Bob laughs with him.

I look at both of them.  “What’s this, a tag team?” I ask Chevy.

“Well boys, you ought to be careful.  I think I’m going to head home.  Ladies?”  Bob says to his table.

All four of them get up.  The sagging, lumpy women shoulder their purses, push in their chairs, and walk out into the parking lot with Banker Bob.

“No fucking way,” I say.

“I’ll take a double,” Chevy says.

Maria brings the next round out.  This time there’s no lime.

“He’s a writer.” Chevy says, nodding towards me, refusing to give up the charade.

“That’s nice,” Maria says.  “I thought he played in bands.”

“He did,” he says to her.

I was beginning to wonder if I was even sitting at this table.

“What do you write?” she asks me.

“Not a whole hell of a lot,” I truthfully reply.

“Hmm.”

“He’s just modest, he writes for Rolling Stone,” Chevy says.

“Hmm,” Maria says.

“Hey, listen,” Chevy continues, “we want to buy drinks for these two guys who were out here a few minutes ago.  Button down shirts tucked in all nice and fancy, tight jeans with actual belt buckles and shit.  Know who I mean?”

“I know who you mean.”

“Get them some Shirley Temples,” Chevy laughs.

Maria says nothing, standing there.

“Ahhh,” Chevy straightens up, “get them whatever fruity thing they’re drinking.”

“Alright,” Maria says, and disappears inside.

“We want to buy them some drinks?” I give Chevy my best you’re-a-jackass look.

“Why not?” he asks.

“For starters, it’s now on my tab, thanks to your Good Lush/Bad Lush routine with Bob there.  And, on a side note, what the fuck is up with the Rolling Stone thing?  Do nineteen year olds even read that magazine these days?”

“Hey man, just trying to help you out with that,” Chevy nods towards the door to show he means Maria.  The issue of my tab is apparently a non-issue.

“I appreciate it,” I lie.  “You better worry about yourself if Jockstrap and GQ come back out.”

“Man, you worry too much.”

“With your aim, I can’t worry enough.”

We both drink for a minute.  I contemplate palming my lighter again; if it comes to blows Chevy might wind up punching himself by accident instead.

“So, how many books a year we going to put out?” he breaks the silence with a subject dropped twenty minutes ago.  Jessie’s Girl by Rick Springfield kicks on from the wall speakers.

“Figure from three to five books a year.  One will have to be an anthology.  It’ll double as a contest to get traffic.  Hopefully it’ll attract good writers.”

“None of that poetry nonsense, I don’t like that.  Poetry is pussy shit.”

“Only the flowery or cut your wrists kind,” I say.

“You mean the kind you write?” he jokes.

Then, from behind us a voice says sternly -

“You like that term PUSSY SHIT, don’t you?”

We both look up.  The button down crew has come out for a smoke and we hadn’t even noticed.  I look on the table for the lighter, then realize I’d already grabbed it to light a smoke, which was in my better swinging hand.  I switch them quickly but nonchalantly.

“What’s up guys?” asks Chevy, smiling again.  They both stand at the table, holding drinks, lighting a smoke.  I sit there, waiting for the first sign of a move.

“Thanks for the drink,” says Sports coat, the assumedly richer one.  His shirt is nicer.

I raise mine up a little bit in toast, just as I’d done with Bob earlier.

“Tough luck with those hags over there,” Chevy says, raising his drink as well.

“We’re not worried about it,” says Washout.

We all chuckle and do a pseudo toast into the clear evening air. 

“Nah, why would you be worried?” Chevy asks rhetorically, but I know him well enough to know that was a very subtle jab.  “Wanna sit down?”

They say alright and sit down.  It’s not as awkward as it should be.  Vintage Chevy; turning things on a dime, again.  I excuse myself to take a piss.  I was hoping not to break the ice; now I’ll be pissing all damned night.

Inside Houlis it is mostly dead except for a few couples in the dimly lit booths.  The restaurant side is practically empty, so the waiters and waitresses have all disappeared to smoke something out back.  I weave through the unoccupied high tables near the televisions and duck into the men’s room.

The bathroom is imitation marble – what do they use for fake marble? I suppose it is real – and wood paneled.  The wood might be fake though, I surmise.   I let go six rounds of rum and coke.  The place is too pristine so I spread it around a little bit.  It makes me miss the crusted shit can in Lou’s for a minute.  There isn’t a word of graffiti in the whole area so it is a boring piss, but at least they have hot water.  Lou’s wouldn’t give you hot water if you had to heat it to mix formula for a dying baby.  On the way back out I spot Maria in the kitchen.  I offer a grin, and I’m not sure what I get in return can also be called one. 

When I get back to the table Chevy’s in full chat with the hyenas.

“So what do you guys do?” he asks.

“We own the Orlando Tribune,” says the nice shirt.

“NO SHIT!” says Chevy, sitting straight up.  He has the same look in his eye as when he suggested playing the Drunk Meat game earlier.

“No shit,” deadpans the washout.

“You guys need to review some of our books.  Once we put them out.”

“Are you a publisher?” snorts Frat.

“Damn straight.”

“What have you put out?”

“Besides your mom?” asks Chevy, mimicking Frat’s deadpan.

There’s a moment of decision that either precedes a fight or a good laugh, and the table chooses laugh.  After that, the conversation continues on publishing.  The talk circles around books for about half a drink.  Then they excuse themselves.

“Ok guys, thanks for the drink.  It was interesting.”  They get up to go.  GQ reaches into his sports coat and produces a card, handing it to Chevy.

“Here’s my card.  If you guys actually put anything out, send it directly to me.  At least I know you guys are real.  But if it sucks, don’t expect a response.”

“We don’t print pussy shit,” Chevy says, as if that were a response.

“We gathered that,” says the washout, and they fluff their feathers and bob their heads back into the dead bar.

Not even a minute later, Maria pops outside.

“Last call,” she says.

“But it’s only eleven!” I say.

“Last call for you guys,” she says.

“What the fuck kind of discrimination is that!” Chevy shouts, probably proving her point for her.

“Doubles then,” I say.  “Split tab.”

“Wait a minute, I won that bet!” Chevy contends.

“No, you cheated by eliminating the competition and utilizing an outside force.”

“C’mon man, that took work!  Besides, don’t blame me if you aren’t smart enough to help your own cause.”

“Alright, alright, my tab,” I tell her.  It was worth it.  Plus, ultimately, he was right.

“Yeah,” Chevy says to her.  “This guy here-” he nods in my direction, “-just landed guaranteed reviews in the Orlando Tribune.”

Maria smiles at me.  Or half smiles.  Or forces a half smile.

“You guys be careful driving home, ok?”

“We’re walking,” Chevy lies.  “We live right over there.”  He points across the parking lot.

“That’s a Chic-Fil-Et fast food joint,” she sighs.

“That’s right baby.  This guy here -” he puts his hand on my shoulder, “- just bought it.”

She disappears back inside.

“That bitch is impossible to impress,” Chevy says.

“See what we’ve been missing by going to dive bars?” I say, again.

“Hey,” he replies, “if Banker Bob can nail three soccer moms and we can get an in to regional reviews, and you can at least look at a piece of young ass that has all of its teeth, what’s wrong with that?”

“You got a point,” I say, a little saddened that I’ve already joined the demographic; joined Banker Bob and the hyenas and the gaggle of lumpy women.  Maybe it was the booze, or the soundtrack from the wall speakers. or the pristine bathrooms, but I somehow felt twenty years older.  Now I just needed a few pictures of an ex-wife and a story about how she stole my children and the car and the house, and I’d have it made.