“Last call!” the new bartender screams, turning down the juke box. The din in the bar fades for just a moment as every hipster and lowlife checks his pint or pitcher to see if he needs one more before the long drive home. In that brief silence, the telephone rings. The bartender–I don’t know her name yet–picks it up and her face lights up with excitement and recognition.
Chloe is sitting to my right, her face a mask of rage. “Chloe?” I ask, touching her shoulder. “Are you all right?” She has been drinking tequila all night. Tequila shots make Chloe a monster. Like a technicolor John Lennon, we are about to see the monster-Chloe rise.
“She turned down my song,” Chloe hisses. Now, I must confess, I am one of the few people in my circle of friends who doesn’t suffer a coronary when Radiohead is prematurely ended, but for the sake of not seeing the Wrath of Chloe Isis on this poor new bartender, who has no idea what she just did, I want to see the song restored. “Turn it back on!” Chloe wails.
“I think this may be our cue to leave,” Doc Filth says, putting back the rest of his pint in one gulp.
Tommy Guilt, who has been on a coke binge that lasted over a week, looks over at the Doc listlessly. Tommy just bought a new pitcher ten minutes ago, and there is no way we’re going to get him out of her before he finishes that. We may be forced to watch the detonation of the horrible human hydrogen bomb that is Chloe Isis.
“No way!” Chloe protests. “I paid two dollars to hear those songs, and I’m not leaving until I hear them!” There have been many a night when I had money devoured by the juke never hearing my songs. That’s the price. I’m sure Chloe has lost her share too, but those times were then, not now, and her timer is counting down. She told us right before she threw back that last tequila shot that it turns her into a Spanish whore. Five minutes later, she was once again showing the nipples she got pierced last month. Now we are about to see her angry drunk side.
“Tommy,” I say, and then gulp the last of my beer. I hold the pint glass to him and say, “Pour.” He doesn’t say a word as he obeys, and I take a massive gulp.
“Turn up the juke box!” Chloe yells. “I paid for this! This bar owes me two dollars!”
“Tommy,” I command. “Pour the Doc a drink.” Again, he does as he is ordered. “Chloe, don’t you own this album? You could go home and listen to it.”
The bartender is still chatting happily, taking no notice of Chloe’s desperate, furious pleas.
“Yes, I could, if we were home!” she cries piteously. “But we’re not home, we’re here, and I want to hear it!”
“Tommy, drink,” I order, and then set a good example. When we have both done so, I point to Chloe’s glass, even though she really doesn’t need more, but the faster we can get her out the door, the better it’s going to be for everyone.
“You want to go to Meaty Boyz?” Doc asks me.
I cock my head to the side. After drinking all night, I am famished, and some greasy, half-cooked sausage and a box of nachos would be killer right now. “I do,” I say, and suck down more of my beer. “Let’s go!” I look over at Chloe. “Forget the song, it’s dead, drive on, let’s get sausages.”
“I don’t eat meat,” she reminds me coldly. She raises her voice to say, “And I want to hear my song!” She widens her eyes and looks at the three of us. “Check this out!” Before we can warn Chloe that whatever she is about to do will most likely be a bad idea, she throws her head back and hawks a wad of spit onto the wall above our heads, and then starts laughing like a maniac. “Isn’t that great?” Before either of us can tell her to calm down, she does it again and starts convulsing in laughter again. “That’s what they get for not playing my song!” I’m really worried that her drunken aim is going to be a bit off and I’m going to end up with a wad of her spit on my forehead.
“Come on, Chloe,” I say. “Drink up and let’s get food.” I glance over at Tommy, who looks as if he’s fast asleep with his glazed eyes open. “Tommy, drink up,” I order. “Everyone wants to go home.”
In robotic fashion, he lifts his glass to his lips and drinks.
“I want my music!” Chloe cries.
Still on the phone, the bartender looks over at us with irritation in her eyes and turns up the juke so we can hear the last strains of some Radiohead song I don’t know.
“That’s better!” Chloe snaps.
I down the rest of my pint and refill everyone’s until the pitcher is gone. When we finish, I usher the group outside. Meaty Boyz Italian Sausage is just down the street, and we walked to the bar.
After the bars close, Meaty Boyz is a horrific mob scene. There will be an ocean of black nappy hair with the occasional Caucasian face getting shoved around, all trying to get to the small opening in the bulletproof glass to order fried sausages, cigarettes, cigars, and the rumored ‘special dinner’ you get if you order the french fries a certain way. To get served, one needs to be assertive, especially honkies. Pushing and shoving to keep your place in line, or even to get a better place in line, is a must. Most of the time, we are the only white devils to be served. The earlier you get here, the more chance you have of getting out without trouble. Chloe’s fiasco has left us with the regular mob though, and tonight is additional chaos.
It’s hard to even get through the door, even though it isn’t a weekend. We struggle our way in, finding a place in line behind a trio of white kids. All around us, people are pushing and shoving, and we are being knocked left and right. The Doc has this crazed look in his eye, and the honkey kids in front of us are terrified.
Filth claps one of the kids on the shoulder and says, “All right, here is what has to be done. You need to break through the lines. You need to get us up front. You are the spearhead!” The boys look terrified of Filth now. The Doc turns to me. “This is madness!” he cries. “Pure madness!”
Up in front of us, a tall black guy with dreadlocks is bent over, talking to the pudgy owner that resembles Super Mario, complete with a red hat and apron. Behind him, a green-hatted Luigi puts dripping sausages in stale buns with a pair of metal tongs. The dreadlock dude stands up, turns around and looks at the crowd, a stoned smile on his face. His eyes widen and he yells out, “If ya’ mad... STAY mad!”
I’m worried that something has been said to piss him off, and my empty stomach will be denied sausage even longer, and even though I have food at home, the nachos here are downright addictive, and it’s really all I can think about at this point.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!” he cries, starting to wade through the crowd. Even though he is taller than most of the people here, even taller than me, his motions are still hard to track as he moves about.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!” It’s the only way to follow him, I’ll get a bead on him, look over to see him, only to find that he is no longer on my left, he is now to my right, only a few feet away.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!” Suddenly, he is behind us, back at the tables, back where people are crammed to the windows like sardines, though he is still having no trouble, moving smoothly about like a fish.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!” He is up at the front now, collecting his order, right in my line of vision. It shouldn’t be hard to follow him now, but without even seeing him move, he is suddenly behind us again.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!”
Filth claps the kid in front of us on the shoulder again. “Break on through,” he whispers, loud enough to be heard over the chaos. “Be like Jim Morrison—break on through. You are the spearhead!”
The bell above the door rings and a heavy black guy in a red sweatsuit comes in with his entourage. He surveys the scene and smiles. “I know ya’ll ain’t here to buy sausage!” he calls out.
Through the windows, I can see the cops congregating in the parking lot across the street, hands on their batons. You really have to love the Parlor City police. Whenever you need them, they are lounging on State Street, checking out the hootchie ass or sitting en masse in front of any of the places (oh no!) black people frequent, always ready to bust heads should one of them try to breathe funny. This scene is about to go from unruly to ugly.
“I know ya’ll didn’t come here to buy sausage!” the man in red calls out again. “I’ve got one bag left for twenty dollars, and I don’t want to go home broke!” People are milling about, not paying a whole lot of attention.
There is a constant circulation of people at the service window, but we have not moved a step. “You need to move,” Dr. Filth tells the kids in front of us. “You need to push forward, or we are going to get in front of you. You are the spearhead!”
“I’m right here!” the man in red yells. “Right on this corner every night, dressed in red. Any time you need weed, come see me!”
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!”
“You are the spearhead.”
“Right here, every Saturday!”
The three honkies in front of us get the idea and start to move forward. It takes but a few minutes to get to the service window. We order our food and are quickly brushed to the side.
“I’ve got to piss,” Dr. Filth says. “You watch for our food.” Before I can say a word, he wades through the sea of people and leaving Tommy, Chloe, and me in a tight triangle.
“Do you have any pot?” I ask Chloe.
Tommy looks like he is in another world altogether.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!”
“Yeah,” she says. “I think I do.”
“Right here on the corner, dressed in red, every night!”
“We should go smoke some pot,” I say.
Super Mario shouts for our orders. We get it and wade through the crowd to the door.
“If ya’ mad... STAY mad!”
Doc Filth is standing outside waiting for us. Across the street, the pigs are getting restless. One is even crossing the street, baton half-drawn. “Let’s get out of here before the trouble hits,” Filth says.
“Chloe has weed back at our house,” I inform him. “Do you have any?”
“Of course I do,” he says, grinning at the sausages wrapped in foil. “I would love to contribute.”
Go to Chapter 15
Go to Chapter 15
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