The Appropriate Elixir

"Face down in the gutter, won't admit defeat though his clothes are soiled and black. He's a big strong man with a child's mind, don't you take his booze away." Dropkick Murphys from "Barroom Hero"

HAHAHA, I escaped again. That nurse has her back turned for two seconds, and I'm scaling the walls. Surely, she won't be able to find me this time.

Last night, I had to go back. I had to see if my first night at the bar was some sort of Lynchian mistake. Was my last encounter an aberration of deviance? The answer to this mystery came to me in the form of a wandering appendage.

Karen was soused, visibly intoxicated, no question in the minds of the tavern populace that she was an easy mark. Seeing that I was there for a singular purpose, that being to drown my blue funk, I was receptive to the rants of a juiced up gal with a nice rack. As the grog shop was overly crowded, due to the college basketball playoffs, I gave her a moment to lean on the bar, instead she chose to lean on me. Now, meeting someone for the first time, whether they be inebriated or not, a handshake is the common greeting, not for Karen. She wanted to shake hands with Little Mike and the Twins. And did so with vigor. Shocked by this I was about to ask if she was friends with Ashley, the three fingered hooker from my last visit, when Karen decided that I wasn't the cup of tea she was looking for. For a moment a wave of inadequacy flushed over me. But then I noticed that Karen was performing the same routine on all the gents in the area. She was going for quantity not quality. More power to her. I shook my head in disbelief and sipped on my Captain and Coke. The dearth of happiness was fading faster than the Tar Heels hopes of a National Championship.

One of the weirdest things about drinking in the Bible belt is that Sunday is a dry day. Can't buy, nor sell alcohol. So as the clock turned up towards midnight, last call was announced. I was shocked. Surely they let the bars finish their evening at the normal 2am. I was informed that God's decree was law, no booze on the Sabbath. I was beside myself, how could I get these blues to die if I was no longer allowed to feed them the appropriate elixir? That's when an angel appeared before me. Bree. Though I had been served by her all night and noticed that she bore a striking resemblance to Sarah Silverman, we had not spoke more than ordering drinks and cash exchanges. Apparently, I tipped well, as is my policy with bartenders and waitresses. She instructed me to head to the pool room while handing me a fresh cocktail, there I would receive further instructions. This was the adventure that I had been craving. The pool room was nearly empty but for a loud Irishman and a couple of hoods from Boston. Listening to the battle of the accent's was a roll on the floor. As the three of them debated the merits of the cans on a girl whose name I never caught, another large man with a voice of gravel, entered the area, Bree followed. The man proclaimed that he would give up fishing for a night in the sack with her. This seemed to impress the verbally challenged dwellers. Bree brought the man over to me and I was introduced to Marty, bar owner. He welcomed me, said that usually this sort of thing didn't happen, but tonight he was locking the doors for a little after party which Bree had recommended I attend.

We drank til 2:30. We talked about Ashley, the hooker, and another customer who was kicked out of the bar earlier for giving lap dances. She was pulling her shirt over guys heads and slapping her tits against their faces like bongos. I'm telling you this bar is the greatest.

The blues are hibernating now.

Dixie Cup of Love: Bree.