Thursday, March 11, 2010

Drunken Shinanigans

It was a brisk night outside the bar - you could hear the cars breathing past. Inside was a whole lot of misery and ugly. The jukebox warbled sad Mexican ballads of lost love and wanton burrachos. The dim din was sprinkled with shabby old men in tattered coats huddled over their mugs like vultures staring into nothing wondering how it all went wrong.
Gabriel and I sat at the warped wooden bar doing the same with a bit more levity - our conversations peppered with dark humor, darker than the night. On the opposite side of Gabriel sat a husky pug faced old man - late forties, white hair, solid physique - drunker he got the queerer he became. Started to make his moves, you dig, on my Native American friend and hetero Gabe was not liking it, not liking it at all.
Every time the fool got up to piss, he'd run his hands across Gabriel's back.
"Creepy. Definitely creepy." Gabe muttered to me.
We continued to ignore the old fruit - that is until I look over to converse with my drinking bud and the codger flips me off. I return the gesture. Why not? Wouldn't you?
The randy old fuck stands with a huff, stomps over and whacks me in the back of the head.
"What the fuck?!" I utter and grab the nearest beer bottle - smashing it across the old mans jaw. Next we are doing a macho ballet around swinging fists - powpowpow - until the barmaid yells at us to knock it off. Must've lasted a whole twenty seconds. The old man shouts obscenities in Spanish and walks out of the bar. I am laughing - I can't stop laughing. The beer numbing the pain that I am sure I will feel in the morning. The bastard got off some good licks.
Gabriel is standing there dazed.
"Thanks for the back up." I snap, grabbing my mug and taking a swig.
"Damn, dude, you were really holding your own." He stated, sheepishly.
Honestly, all that hardcore talk of prison and bikers and gangster living, he could of jumped in - I would have.
I finished my beer, slammed the mug down, now consumed by anger by what just happened, "Man, that old queer was jealous that I was talking to you. Don't you get it? He was fighting over you. Your not fucking worth it as far as I'm concerned - you could have watched my back instead of just watching!" I mean, if Gabriel was handsome, I'd understand - but, he's not. About as attractive as a wet mop.
"Oh, you sayin' it's my fault?" He puffed up.
"Ugh!" I just walked out and went home.
Yeah, next morning - things hurt...


Juan Pablo Magno said...

"On the opposite side of Gabriel sat a husky pug faced old man - late forties, white hair..." Hey, Luis, gimme a break. You're idea of an "old man" is my idea of jail bait. If I picked up a guy of 40, I'd worry about accusations of child abuse. How could you have gone to a bar with your man, old Bull Lee, aka William Burroughs, author of "Naked Lunch," thinking that over forty was past the age of real and valid experience? I'm pushing 70 and identify with you. Wonder what makes you think that 40 is a separate reality. But I promise not to make any moves on your young straight friends. I wouldn't touch Gabe with an empty Tecate can. You should re-read Drunken Shinanigans when you're 50 and are recovering from a night of drunken Shinanigans. But, what the hell, I can remember when I thought guys in their thirties were over the hill. If those over 40 now seem to you to be of a different species, you'll get over it. The hard way. Remember, we only got two choices: Get old or die. I didn't make the rule, I just had it enforced against me.

Luis Blasini said...

Hahaha - I wouldn't touch Gabriel, either - he's as attractive as an old wet mop. He's just fun to drink with.
I was called an old man by a 17 year old the other day. It hurt...