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Rough Draft
George scuffled along with the .45 jangling in his inside pocket. He had woken to a wicked thirst and a pounding head. He lay there masturbating as the jumbled memories surfaced. The rhino in the belly shirt knocking back shots of tequila, grinding him until he stumbled out the bar to puke on the sidewalk. He shouldn't drink rum, he thought. They didn't mix.
In the shower he remembered the bartender cutting him off and a scuffle with bouncers. He bought a sack from an old hippie at Jefferson Park and scored a fifth of Canadian whiskey for a busty punk bootlegger on Sixth Ave. He ate a garden sandwich.
He smoked a bowl and got on the bus. The sun infuriated him. The whore mother of two bastard sons babbled on a cellphone. He grit his teeth. I should stab that bitch, he thought.
He clocked in and stared at Nikki's ass. She was a great server and her Jewry piqued his interest. He made a table rare steaks and Creme brûlée for a bunch of Yuppie assholes.
When he clocked out he noticed her eying him from down the hall. He gathered his balls and smiled. She smiled back.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing tonight?” She opened her purse.
“Nothing probably.”
“You should come to bar with Sheila and me.” She handed him a flier.
“What's this?”
“It's that new club on Dupont.”
“Oh yeah where Tony's used to be, right?”
“Yeah. It's kinda cool actually. They kept all the antique posters and stuff. It's got a real rockabilly vibe. You'd probably like it a lot.”
He broke eye contact and smiled. “Yeah that sounds cool.”
“Great.”
Sheila came out from behind the front desk. “Hey we got to go.”
“Okay,” she said. “Don't be a fag and flake out.”
“I'll try not to be a fag.”
He rode the link home. He bought a pint of hundred proof vodka across the street and filled his flask. He smoked a bowl and slept till six thirty. He brushed his teeth and dressed. A bowl for the road, he thought.
He rode the link to the bar. He sat at a table almost as dirty as the bar itself on a wobbly stool whose cracked red leather upholstery had begun to flake. It creaked horribly with every minute adjustment of position so he forced himself to sit uncomfortably straight with his back up against a wall for support. He was hidden from prying eyes by the bar to his right and a pole plastered with advertisements for mediocrity to his left. A waitress hobbled over drinks in hand.
“A whiskey sour,” she said, “and a dark lager.” She had the forearms of a longshoreman.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
He drank the whiskey and downed the beer and felt the gears and levers kick into movement. He explored the contours of the stool with a free hand and ran his fingers over a dry slab of leather situated above a row of brass studs. He picked away what little remained and began fingering a soft patch of yellow foam padding. He was staring at a mirror on the wall, lost in the stool's yellow foam innards, when the waitress found her way back to his table.
“Did you want anything else?”
“Another whiskey and lager.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
His reflection was not remarkable. He was of average height and build. A bit neurotic and paranoid. A mad consumer of bourbon and Luckies. A fiend.
He saw her peek into the bar. He waved and she met him half way.
“How many black shirts do you own?” she asked.
“All my shirts are black.”
She laughed. “You know its kind of hard to shed the goth image when you wear nothing but black.”
“I know right.”
“And avoid sunlight. You should try smiling.”
“You know I thought about that.”
“Why are you hidden in the corner?”
“Because hell is other people.”
“Okay Tim Burton...”
“Sartre.”
“...but I want to sit at the bar where the people and food are.”
“Fine.”
“Awesome.”
“Where's Sheila?”
“She couldn't find a babysitter.”
They sat next to a barrel of a man with a grim reaper on his arm. He drank shots of tequila and long necks of Corona. Later on when George played WAR on the jukebox he nodded in approval. He rolled his smokes in batches and smoked often.
“You guys married?” he asked randomly. His eye lids must have weighed a ton.
“I don't know,” George said. He turned to her. “Are we?”
“I wouldn't put it past us.”
“Anythings possible.”
“What?” he asked.
“Naw we're not married man.”
“That's good. What's the divorce rate now?”
“I think it's over fifty percent.”
“Jesus.” He stroked his goatee.
George was bored and wished the conversation to end.
“Yeah.” He leaned into her drunkenly. “We should go.”
“Okay.”
They stumbled out the bar and into her car. She questioned the wisdom of driving in her condition but the booze had soaked her bones and before she knew it the car was on the road.
She flew down Camden screaming, “Fuck you bitches!”
“Shut up man Jesus.”
“Why?”
“Cops cruise this bitch all day. Look there's one of those fucking camera things right there.”
“Pussy.”
“Listen I will hit a woman.”
“Whatever pussy.”
“I will punch you in the tooth bitch.”
She laughed. “I love that show.”
“I fucking know man. It's brilliant.”
“Oh shit its Thursday!”
“Yeah?”
“The new episode's tonight. We can watch it at my place.”
“Don't you work tomorrow morning?”
“Blah blah blah I'm a big pussy.”
“Okay fine whatever man I was just trying to help you out.”
Nikki pulled into the lot and George counted four Impalas.
“What the fuck you doing in the hood.”
“Tuition's a bitch. What are you scared of brown people or something?”
“Not scared. Leery.”
She laughed and entered the door code and they entered a gray hall. Her place was cramped. It was covered in posters and full of papers and books. There was always some incense burning. The vague smell of vegetable curry.
She danced, “Ba ba da ba ba ba...”
“Where's your dock?”
She pointed at her book shelf. “It's over there.”
He was drunk and it took him some time to find his phone. He plugged it in and played Mississippi John Hurt. They pounded screwdrivers and dissected television. They smoked.
She grinned. “It's cool isn't it?”
“Yeah. I saw a pocket-sized one online. I was thinking about getting it.”
“It's better for you.”
George turned to the television. A moist idiot with a foolish haircut shuffled papers. He fixed his tie and smiled. “We now return you to the aerial bombardment already in progress.”
He laughed. “What?”
“What?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The newscaster.”
“Of course not.”
“He returned us to a fucking aerial bombardment in progress.”
“You're high.”
“You can win every argument that way. It's not fair.”
“I think it's completely fair.”
“That's ridiculous sir.”
She laughed. “Have you seen that website with those crazy videos of like random gore and fire victims.”
“Yeah. Toxic something.”
“This one video is so crazy.” She got up and turned on her computer. He got up and searched the kitchen.
“You got any more booze?”
“I've got some vodka in the freezer.”
George read the label. It was Russian. A hundred proof. He emptied the bottle into two glasses. He mixed them with mango juice.
“Is it the car shooting one?”
“No,” she said. It's the mystery one. Where's my drink?”
“It's strong.”
“I like it strong.”
“Oh that's just inappropriate.”
She laughed. “Inappropriate?”
He downed his vodka. “We're coworkers Ms. Bonilla.”
“Oh shut up.”
“I can't. I love your last name. He was the best.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Bonilla man. He played right field for the '91 Pirates.”
“Oh you're talking about baseball again. I don't how can you watch that shit.”
“What?”
“Big dumb jocks swinging a stick...”
“It's art.”
She laughed. “What?”
“Baseball is the thinking man's sport. It requires power, speed, reasoning...”
“And steroids. Lots of steroids.”
“You know what? I don't even care. I think they should be allowed to use steroids. I want to see a game where every match up is an '04 Bonds against a '94 Maddux. That would be incredible.”
“That's great...”
“It would awesome.”
“You are insane.”
“See there you go again. It's not an argument.”
George turned to the television. He sat there in a daze. He hated the newscaster and his smug face. He smoked. “Fuck him.”
“Who?”
“The newscaster?”
“What is with you and the newscaster?”
“He's got a real punchable face.”
“Why are you so angry?”
He laughed. “I'm calm as shit right now.”
“That doesn't mean you're not angry.”
“What's with the psychobabble?”
“It's attack of the flying truths.”
The newscaster preached hellfire. An explosion shattered windows on Hilltop. A pregnant woman gutted near Lake Washington. A family of four drowned. The Mariners win on a suicide squeeze. A hotel is on fire in Bridgeport.
He took two more and drank from his flask. The brown liquor wet his tongue and he felt alive. “Hey,” he said. “Let's do something.”
“What?”
“We can play baseball.”
“It's two in the morning moron.”
“Night games are awesome.”
“You have smoked yourself retarded sir.”
“Bitch I will stab you in the face!”
She laughed. “We have to be quiet. My neighbors a sonic Nazi.”
“Cretins.”
“I know. Are you hungry?”
“Hell yes. I haven't eaten all day.”
“We've worked together for a year and a half and I've never seen you eat.”
“I know. I should start.”
“Oh my god we could make something.”
“You're on crack dude. Bring it down a notch.”
“Come on Iron Chef George.”
“Fuck you.”
“You're not going to blow me away?”
“Fuck man. What do you got?”
“I have everything cocksucker. Get up out of the chair and follow me into the kitchen.”
“Fine.”
“Jesus Christ.”
George opened the fridge and peered round. “Do you have an immersion blender?”
“Yeah actually.”
“Awesome. We can make carrot soup.”
“Is that the curry tasting one?”
“Yeah.”
“That is awesome.”
“You have leeks. I wasn't expecting that.”
“I'm telling you I watch that show all the time and you could totally be on it.”
“That's retarded.”
“You'd be perfect. The Goth chef.”
“Shut up.”
“You'd wear nothing but black. Half the time you'd just be smoking.”
“Damn right.”
“I'm telling you it would be hilarious. I could direct your audition tape.”
“Or I could just do it myself Cassavetes-style.”
“You dare compare yourself...”
“I wasn't comparing myself...”
“Yes you were. That is the very essence of a comparison.”
“Just pass me the baking sheet.”
“Blasphemer.”
He laughed. “It'll be a few minutes before these are roasted. You should get beer.”
“Why me?”
“Because you're making me cook on my day off.”
“My god what a princess.”
“That's right bitch! Cause I don't play that shit!”
“Why are you screaming? We're inside.”
He laughed. “Oh shit! You should get wine.”
“Now there's an idea.”
“Get some White Sancerre.”
“The fuck?”
“White Sancerre.”
“I'll remember that.”
“I'm serious. It's a good pairing.”
“Fine fine fine. I'll get you your fancy French wine immediately.”
“I expect nothing...”
“At two in the morning.”
“...but the best Nikki. I am the excellence of execution after all.”
“I could be raped you know.”
“Who would rape this?”
She punched him. “Shut up.”
“I'm serious. They will run from you. You won't have to chase them away.”
“I'll be back soon.”
George hunched over. “Grab the pitchforks Susan she's a coming! God almighty the horror Susan!”
“Bye!”
George doused the vegetables in olive oil and placed them in the oven. He sat and stared at the television. The high-definition image of the newscaster filled him with hate. Why is he so clear, he thought, I want to stab him in the neck with a fork.
He was half done with the soup when she returned. She placed a case of imported Japanese beer on the counter.
“What the hell is that?”
“It's Japanese. That means it's awesome.”
“Fucking sacrilege.”
“Nine bucks for a fucking case.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“That's incredible. Where's the wine?”
“Oh shit I forgot.”
He laughed. “Fucking American...”
“I swear if you start speaking French I'll kick you.”
“I don't think you should be able to vote unless you can watch Delicatessen without subtitles."
“You would have been a terrific fascist.”
“I know right. I would have been like the perfect Nazi.”
“That smells great.”
“It's almost done. Can you pass me the cream?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you miss.”
Nikki opened a beer and sat. She stared at him. “When did you start cooking?”
“A few years ago.”
“After the war?”
“Yeah.”
“Don't you think it's kind of dangerous to carry a gun to work?”
“Not really.”
“You're crazy.”
George tasted the soup. “No,” he said. “This is crazy.” He poured two bowls of soup and placed them on the counter. He sat next to her.
“This is good.”
“I know right. I'm surprised you have so much ginger.”
“I never really use the stuff.”
“It's a gift from the Gods.”
She grinned and wiped her lip. “It looks like a retarded potato.”
In the shower he remembered the bartender cutting him off and a scuffle with bouncers. He bought a sack from an old hippie at Jefferson Park and scored a fifth of Canadian whiskey for a busty punk bootlegger on Sixth Ave. He ate a garden sandwich.
He smoked a bowl and got on the bus. The sun infuriated him. The whore mother of two bastard sons babbled on a cellphone. He grit his teeth. I should stab that bitch, he thought.
He clocked in and stared at Nikki's ass. She was a great server and her Jewry piqued his interest. He made a table rare steaks and Creme brûlée for a bunch of Yuppie assholes.
When he clocked out he noticed her eying him from down the hall. He gathered his balls and smiled. She smiled back.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing tonight?” She opened her purse.
“Nothing probably.”
“You should come to bar with Sheila and me.” She handed him a flier.
“What's this?”
“It's that new club on Dupont.”
“Oh yeah where Tony's used to be, right?”
“Yeah. It's kinda cool actually. They kept all the antique posters and stuff. It's got a real rockabilly vibe. You'd probably like it a lot.”
He broke eye contact and smiled. “Yeah that sounds cool.”
“Great.”
Sheila came out from behind the front desk. “Hey we got to go.”
“Okay,” she said. “Don't be a fag and flake out.”
“I'll try not to be a fag.”
He rode the link home. He bought a pint of hundred proof vodka across the street and filled his flask. He smoked a bowl and slept till six thirty. He brushed his teeth and dressed. A bowl for the road, he thought.
He rode the link to the bar. He sat at a table almost as dirty as the bar itself on a wobbly stool whose cracked red leather upholstery had begun to flake. It creaked horribly with every minute adjustment of position so he forced himself to sit uncomfortably straight with his back up against a wall for support. He was hidden from prying eyes by the bar to his right and a pole plastered with advertisements for mediocrity to his left. A waitress hobbled over drinks in hand.
“A whiskey sour,” she said, “and a dark lager.” She had the forearms of a longshoreman.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
He drank the whiskey and downed the beer and felt the gears and levers kick into movement. He explored the contours of the stool with a free hand and ran his fingers over a dry slab of leather situated above a row of brass studs. He picked away what little remained and began fingering a soft patch of yellow foam padding. He was staring at a mirror on the wall, lost in the stool's yellow foam innards, when the waitress found her way back to his table.
“Did you want anything else?”
“Another whiskey and lager.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
His reflection was not remarkable. He was of average height and build. A bit neurotic and paranoid. A mad consumer of bourbon and Luckies. A fiend.
He saw her peek into the bar. He waved and she met him half way.
“How many black shirts do you own?” she asked.
“All my shirts are black.”
She laughed. “You know its kind of hard to shed the goth image when you wear nothing but black.”
“I know right.”
“And avoid sunlight. You should try smiling.”
“You know I thought about that.”
“Why are you hidden in the corner?”
“Because hell is other people.”
“Okay Tim Burton...”
“Sartre.”
“...but I want to sit at the bar where the people and food are.”
“Fine.”
“Awesome.”
“Where's Sheila?”
“She couldn't find a babysitter.”
They sat next to a barrel of a man with a grim reaper on his arm. He drank shots of tequila and long necks of Corona. Later on when George played WAR on the jukebox he nodded in approval. He rolled his smokes in batches and smoked often.
“You guys married?” he asked randomly. His eye lids must have weighed a ton.
“I don't know,” George said. He turned to her. “Are we?”
“I wouldn't put it past us.”
“Anythings possible.”
“What?” he asked.
“Naw we're not married man.”
“That's good. What's the divorce rate now?”
“I think it's over fifty percent.”
“Jesus.” He stroked his goatee.
George was bored and wished the conversation to end.
“Yeah.” He leaned into her drunkenly. “We should go.”
“Okay.”
They stumbled out the bar and into her car. She questioned the wisdom of driving in her condition but the booze had soaked her bones and before she knew it the car was on the road.
She flew down Camden screaming, “Fuck you bitches!”
“Shut up man Jesus.”
“Why?”
“Cops cruise this bitch all day. Look there's one of those fucking camera things right there.”
“Pussy.”
“Listen I will hit a woman.”
“Whatever pussy.”
“I will punch you in the tooth bitch.”
She laughed. “I love that show.”
“I fucking know man. It's brilliant.”
“Oh shit its Thursday!”
“Yeah?”
“The new episode's tonight. We can watch it at my place.”
“Don't you work tomorrow morning?”
“Blah blah blah I'm a big pussy.”
“Okay fine whatever man I was just trying to help you out.”
Nikki pulled into the lot and George counted four Impalas.
“What the fuck you doing in the hood.”
“Tuition's a bitch. What are you scared of brown people or something?”
“Not scared. Leery.”
She laughed and entered the door code and they entered a gray hall. Her place was cramped. It was covered in posters and full of papers and books. There was always some incense burning. The vague smell of vegetable curry.
She danced, “Ba ba da ba ba ba...”
“Where's your dock?”
She pointed at her book shelf. “It's over there.”
He was drunk and it took him some time to find his phone. He plugged it in and played Mississippi John Hurt. They pounded screwdrivers and dissected television. They smoked.
She grinned. “It's cool isn't it?”
“Yeah. I saw a pocket-sized one online. I was thinking about getting it.”
“It's better for you.”
George turned to the television. A moist idiot with a foolish haircut shuffled papers. He fixed his tie and smiled. “We now return you to the aerial bombardment already in progress.”
He laughed. “What?”
“What?”
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The newscaster.”
“Of course not.”
“He returned us to a fucking aerial bombardment in progress.”
“You're high.”
“You can win every argument that way. It's not fair.”
“I think it's completely fair.”
“That's ridiculous sir.”
She laughed. “Have you seen that website with those crazy videos of like random gore and fire victims.”
“Yeah. Toxic something.”
“This one video is so crazy.” She got up and turned on her computer. He got up and searched the kitchen.
“You got any more booze?”
“I've got some vodka in the freezer.”
George read the label. It was Russian. A hundred proof. He emptied the bottle into two glasses. He mixed them with mango juice.
“Is it the car shooting one?”
“No,” she said. It's the mystery one. Where's my drink?”
“It's strong.”
“I like it strong.”
“Oh that's just inappropriate.”
She laughed. “Inappropriate?”
He downed his vodka. “We're coworkers Ms. Bonilla.”
“Oh shut up.”
“I can't. I love your last name. He was the best.”
“Who?”
“Bobby Bonilla man. He played right field for the '91 Pirates.”
“Oh you're talking about baseball again. I don't how can you watch that shit.”
“What?”
“Big dumb jocks swinging a stick...”
“It's art.”
She laughed. “What?”
“Baseball is the thinking man's sport. It requires power, speed, reasoning...”
“And steroids. Lots of steroids.”
“You know what? I don't even care. I think they should be allowed to use steroids. I want to see a game where every match up is an '04 Bonds against a '94 Maddux. That would be incredible.”
“That's great...”
“It would awesome.”
“You are insane.”
“See there you go again. It's not an argument.”
George turned to the television. He sat there in a daze. He hated the newscaster and his smug face. He smoked. “Fuck him.”
“Who?”
“The newscaster?”
“What is with you and the newscaster?”
“He's got a real punchable face.”
“Why are you so angry?”
He laughed. “I'm calm as shit right now.”
“That doesn't mean you're not angry.”
“What's with the psychobabble?”
“It's attack of the flying truths.”
The newscaster preached hellfire. An explosion shattered windows on Hilltop. A pregnant woman gutted near Lake Washington. A family of four drowned. The Mariners win on a suicide squeeze. A hotel is on fire in Bridgeport.
He took two more and drank from his flask. The brown liquor wet his tongue and he felt alive. “Hey,” he said. “Let's do something.”
“What?”
“We can play baseball.”
“It's two in the morning moron.”
“Night games are awesome.”
“You have smoked yourself retarded sir.”
“Bitch I will stab you in the face!”
She laughed. “We have to be quiet. My neighbors a sonic Nazi.”
“Cretins.”
“I know. Are you hungry?”
“Hell yes. I haven't eaten all day.”
“We've worked together for a year and a half and I've never seen you eat.”
“I know. I should start.”
“Oh my god we could make something.”
“You're on crack dude. Bring it down a notch.”
“Come on Iron Chef George.”
“Fuck you.”
“You're not going to blow me away?”
“Fuck man. What do you got?”
“I have everything cocksucker. Get up out of the chair and follow me into the kitchen.”
“Fine.”
“Jesus Christ.”
George opened the fridge and peered round. “Do you have an immersion blender?”
“Yeah actually.”
“Awesome. We can make carrot soup.”
“Is that the curry tasting one?”
“Yeah.”
“That is awesome.”
“You have leeks. I wasn't expecting that.”
“I'm telling you I watch that show all the time and you could totally be on it.”
“That's retarded.”
“You'd be perfect. The Goth chef.”
“Shut up.”
“You'd wear nothing but black. Half the time you'd just be smoking.”
“Damn right.”
“I'm telling you it would be hilarious. I could direct your audition tape.”
“Or I could just do it myself Cassavetes-style.”
“You dare compare yourself...”
“I wasn't comparing myself...”
“Yes you were. That is the very essence of a comparison.”
“Just pass me the baking sheet.”
“Blasphemer.”
He laughed. “It'll be a few minutes before these are roasted. You should get beer.”
“Why me?”
“Because you're making me cook on my day off.”
“My god what a princess.”
“That's right bitch! Cause I don't play that shit!”
“Why are you screaming? We're inside.”
He laughed. “Oh shit! You should get wine.”
“Now there's an idea.”
“Get some White Sancerre.”
“The fuck?”
“White Sancerre.”
“I'll remember that.”
“I'm serious. It's a good pairing.”
“Fine fine fine. I'll get you your fancy French wine immediately.”
“I expect nothing...”
“At two in the morning.”
“...but the best Nikki. I am the excellence of execution after all.”
“I could be raped you know.”
“Who would rape this?”
She punched him. “Shut up.”
“I'm serious. They will run from you. You won't have to chase them away.”
“I'll be back soon.”
George hunched over. “Grab the pitchforks Susan she's a coming! God almighty the horror Susan!”
“Bye!”
George doused the vegetables in olive oil and placed them in the oven. He sat and stared at the television. The high-definition image of the newscaster filled him with hate. Why is he so clear, he thought, I want to stab him in the neck with a fork.
He was half done with the soup when she returned. She placed a case of imported Japanese beer on the counter.
“What the hell is that?”
“It's Japanese. That means it's awesome.”
“Fucking sacrilege.”
“Nine bucks for a fucking case.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“That's incredible. Where's the wine?”
“Oh shit I forgot.”
He laughed. “Fucking American...”
“I swear if you start speaking French I'll kick you.”
“I don't think you should be able to vote unless you can watch Delicatessen without subtitles."
“You would have been a terrific fascist.”
“I know right. I would have been like the perfect Nazi.”
“That smells great.”
“It's almost done. Can you pass me the cream?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you miss.”
Nikki opened a beer and sat. She stared at him. “When did you start cooking?”
“A few years ago.”
“After the war?”
“Yeah.”
“Don't you think it's kind of dangerous to carry a gun to work?”
“Not really.”
“You're crazy.”
George tasted the soup. “No,” he said. “This is crazy.” He poured two bowls of soup and placed them on the counter. He sat next to her.
“This is good.”
“I know right. I'm surprised you have so much ginger.”
“I never really use the stuff.”
“It's a gift from the Gods.”
She grinned and wiped her lip. “It looks like a retarded potato.”
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