Just Writing to Write
"Hey!, who can tell me when Otis Redding died? If anyone in this bar can tell me when Otis Redding died I'll buy them, and everyone else, a drink."
The short bartender spoke up but was hushed.
"No, not you Eric. You don't count, and not you either. I'm talking about the dead fuckers in here. Come on, you guys down there. This IS a bar you know? We can smile you know? We can get absolutely smoked out of our minds and no one is going to care because that's the way it is."
* Looked down at himself after that last statement. And surmised it into "No one gives a shit."
He took a strong pull off of his scotch and water and motioned with his right hand towards the rest of the bar in a downward motion that said, "Ahh go fuck yourself."
He was almost drunk and almost alone if it weren't for the people around him. But, the people around him made him feel more alone, if it weren't for the magic elixir. If it weren't for the booze there would be no mistaking these people for enemies or at least, passers-by. He would be elevated again. "Again", as if one time existed in lieu of this?
He never got drunk anymore. He just got bitter.
He sat down in the red leather chair. It was a stool chair. It was situated in the bottom 3rd of a 40 foot long bar. The stool was one of the only things he liked about his favorite bar and he leaned back to take the full feeling of strong plush leather in.
"well it's one-two-three-four take the elevator at the Hotel Yorba. I'll be glad to see you later." by the White Stripes came on.
He sang out the lyrics to song in chime with Eric. He always sang with Eric. He liked music and it allowed him to be different. It was a conscious selection to be like no one else. It allowed the freedom of choice to still exist. He didn't necessarily even like the music, he liked that he knew more about it than anyone else, and he liked that very few people agreed with him on his tastes.
He sat and sipped at his booze as people came up to say 'hello' or have even more benign greetings consisting of work or weekends. The people around him were dead to him. They meant nothing. He would fight for them in the streets but that was to serve his own purposes. He would buy them drinks but that was for his own purpose. He would get them women but again, that only served his own needs. He was vacant and like cars pulling into an empty motel parking lot, these things filled him.
"Someone's always coming around here trailing some new kill. I've seen you picture on a hundred dollar bill." Elliot Smith now started to come through.
Hours ago * had but forty dollars in the jukebox to counteract any inability he had on controlling the atmosphere. He would pay to hear his music for the entire evening. He didn't want any influence or disturbance in his quest for a quest.
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* woke up on the morning of July 18th 2004. He was wearing the same shorts and shirt he had on last night. His body was strewn across the bed diagonal and not in conformity with any sheet or pillow. He opened his eyes and let out a slight moan.
The TV was on with the volume up way too high for such an early morning. He lived on the 3rd floor of a 3 story house and had not, as of yet, purchased curtains. He sat up, ran his fingers through hair and wiggled the loose follicles out as they had been failing to gravity for the past 2 years. He was 25 years old today.
He looked around the room with his hand parted over his eye as sailor would salute an officer. He leaned out of bed to grab at the alarm clock almost 5 feet away. He lost his balance and fell half on the floor. He righted himself and reached for the clock and saw it read 8:35.
Outloud, "8:35?. Ah man what the fuck."
Inside, "Fucking loer you are. Don't go look in the mirror. You're just going to see bad aging and the fruitless battle of the night before. How much money did I spend?"
Outloud, "Fuck! Fuck! Booze!"
He wandered out into the hallway after discarding his khaki shorts and his smart t-shirt. He put on a comfortable pair of mesh shorts and all cotton t-shirt that had some small corporate logo printed on the right chest, but it was worn and felt good against his skin, almost cooling him.
He leaned over the railing peering down into the narrow opening all the way to the ground floor. He got a wad of spit in his mouth and let it drop. It hit the second floor railing. He continued to stand their rubbing his chest and adjusting himself waiting for an audience.
