Soda

I had taken a xanax and swallowed an entire 40 by the time I got there. The sky was still fairly young and the heat had let loose its strangle on the air so I slid into some jeans and shoved a pack of rolling tobacco in my pocket then bounced from the house on a sweet evening mission.

According to the DJ it was more packed than usual. Looking at the crowd that didn’t come as a surprise. There were hipsters and hippies. Yuppies and thugs A smattering of professionals, and a pocket of jocks. I collapsed on one of the couches. –Get me a scotch and soda, I barked.

My boy Charles hit the decks. The groupies know him as Fucknasty; don’t ask me how he got the name. A collage of 90’s hip hop makes the room sit down and nod their head. I collect another drink, this time a glass of merlot, then sit down and face the girl next to me. –So what was your name again?

-Tracy, she says, and then looks away towards her friend. I sit there red faced for a moment. Her legs are long and you can see her thigh muscles flex when she bounces the top one, the one thats crossed. She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail and on her neck is a small mole. She switches legs, crossing the other and I pull my shirt from behind me, so I don’t look fat. I feel large and awkward. My moustache is uneven. My beard is patchy. I have a girlfriend. I’m committed. I’m in love. My shoes are to skinny, they don’t match my shirt.

I sweep my finger around the room, -This crowd looks bored. Where are the drugs? She chuckles, unimpressed, then turns to her friend and says something I can’t hear. –They should turn the music down a little, I say, people cant hear each other talking. She smiles and nods, not at me, but her friend, and pulls her hair back behind her ear.

Her friend is a gal I know. A girl named Maple. We got flirty one night on cocaine and rum drinks at a house party in Greenpoint on Memorial Day last summer. We touched lips, but didn’t kiss. She had a kangol hat on and also a low cut tank top and she got drunk and cried when I made a joke about cancer she found offensive. I made it up to her on a balcony when we were alone together sharing a cigarette. I apologized sincerely and held her hand and scrutinized her eyes as I did it. She laughed when I didn’t kiss her, but then was silent for a second after, because she knew it wasn’t because I was scared, but because I didn’t want to.

When things started to thin in the bar I ordered one more glass of wine and prepared my exit speeches. I would shake hands, give hugs, say “I’ll see you soon,” and get ghost. Every night is just another, dawn is what really unearths the magic. Who needs a long good bye, we’ll see each other soon enough.

The bartender brings another round. -This one’s on me, she says and we all raise our glasses in salute to her. Tracy pushes hers into the center of the table. –I’m done, she mutters, no more for me. I look at my watch, clocking my curfew coming up. I grab her glass and raise it with my other, -I’ll take it! More for me. Let's all get merry!

I drank them both too, then slammed the glasses on the table when I was done. The bartender turned on the jukebox and The Flaming Lips asked if I realize. Tracy and Maple were talking in low whispers to each other. Fucknasty was packing up his record bag. I stumbled outside and lit up a cigarette. Fuck this shit, I'm going home.

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Enough about me, watch Bob Dylan live and pretend you were there. Then take some handjob lessons, you know you need them.