Trouble

I was already drunk, slurring my words, watching television while all the lights were burning. It was around midnight when the phone rang and I knew it was a long shot but I hoped it was someone that had a load of drugs they wanted to share. I wasn’t even feeling picky. I’d have done whatever they were offering. There was no such luck to be had though; instead it was an unrecognizable female voice on the other line, offering me a job. It starts next Thursday. Figures, I thought, before begrudgingly accepting, I never get offered what I want at the exact moment I want it, it’s always slightly off.

I want drugs and I get work. I want sex and I get time alone to watch porno. I want inspiration and I get new shampoo. It’s always the same, just slightly different.

So I accepted the job, as a bartender at one of my local dives. I don’t know what the pay is yet, and I don’t even know if they’ll think I'm worth keeping, but at least for now I have a place to be that isn’t another room in my apartment. Thing is, I haven’t been behind a bar I years, so I need to practice my pours and do some brushing up on some recipes, especially these new fandangled drink concoctions that have erupted into our livers since I last served anything neat or on the rocks. I figure if nothing less, I’ll be drinking for free at least two nights this week, so there’s always that…

And I’ve changed the name to the party I’m throwing, which wasn’t a name I wanted to begin with. The name for the party was Le Frique, which my partner proposed and, because I wasn’t in the mood to argue and had nothing to offer myself, I agreed to, albeit hesitantly. The name chafed my head though. It brought up images of rich twenty somethings in leather coats, drinking martinis and bearing their teeth. Velvet lampshades and bad cocaine. Good looking bartenders and super expensive drinks. Bad sex with friends of friends and generic Viagra and high fives over reserved tables. Nothing I see at a party of mine. Nothing I want a in party I go to.

So I made a call and a voiced my opinion and the name is changed. It is no longer Le Frique.

It is Trouble.

See, I think Trouble works better because for one, if you have seen the place were it is, and the regulars that frequent it, you would not think: “Oh, I’m going to bring a date here, maybe after a few Cosmo’s they will think I’m charming.” No, the spot is dark, with dingy corners. Sure, there are tables lining the walls, and they do have nice tablecloths made of a remarkably soft material, but they are all in the shade, somewhat hidden, almost in their own quiet. You do not want to take a date here, you might lose them. For two, the drinks are cheap and the bathrooms are large and private. So that means when one gets drunk enough to call their cocaine dealer, there are bathrooms that allow an undisturbed ingestion of said vice, and if they have split the bag with a buddy, their friend can join them in the same stall without looking too weird. For three, from what I saw, there were a lot of drugs circulating the bar and its regular flies, lots of jaws twisting and noses sniffling. Really fast conversations that veered into nowhere. Eyes, that wouldn’t keep focus.

So Trouble seems to work. Fuck Le Frique. I don’t even know what that means.

So I will be getting into Trouble Thursday, and starting Trouble Wednesday, and hurting from Trouble on Friday, and aching for Trouble by Saturday.

I'm ready for it though. What else is there to do?