Cock and Balls!

“Cock and Balls!”

I looked up from my stool to see why such things were being screamed. I didn’t really find an answer.

A short, stubby little red-haired girl was sitting at the end of the bar. She was drinking an Amstel Light. I fucking hate Amstel Light. It reminds me of Michelob.

I go back to watching “The Middle.” I want to say it reminds me of “Malcolm In the Middle” but it really doesn’t because I never watched that show. I started watching “The Middle” mainly because it was on when I got home from work. When I had a job.

Now, I drink less-than-shitty beer in my local.

Lately, this stubby little red-haired girl has been coming in. It’s making me reconsider my local being my local anymore.

She’s not ugly. She’s not pretty. She’s that in between that you just don’t understand. I dig her tattoo of a soccer ball being kicked by a crab. That’s what I have deduced about her and I’s potential for a long-lasting relationship.

And she yells “Cock and Balls!” quite often when no one is around.

Except for me.

You’d think maybe she’s talking to me. But I don’t make such jumps. It’s why I was a virgin until I was 20, and then I lost my virginity to a girl who told her friends “I’m going to have him tonight!” and well, she did.

It was great at the moment. But soon became a drag.

She was an awful person. And I’d probably hazard to guess she still is.

Of course, a lot of people would say that about me. And they’d be pretty damn correct.

Ryan Adams’ “Losering” comes on.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“What?” says the stubby red-haired gal.

“I hate this damn song,” I reply, no knowing why I’m opening this line of dialogue.

“Reminds you of an ex, huh?” she replies.

“Nah,” I say. “It reminds me of sitting in my studio apartment drinking over my ex.”

“Touche.” And she goes back to drinking her Amstel Light and I go back to watching “The Middle.” It’s the episode where the mom is worried that the son, older one, isn’t texting her back.

I hate texting. I think. I also hate talking on phones. Fuck phones.

The world outside is wet, rainy and cold. I’m glad I don’t smoke cigarettes. Yet, I miss them. There’s always something wrong about sitting in a dingy bar and not smelling smoke. Now, you just smell it when some ass hat sits down next to you, smelling like an ashtray.

Smokers stink.

But so do people that just fucked in the bathroom stall of a Burger King.

I look at the TV. Charlie Sheen is smiling in a commercial. He’s got HIV, I think. I don’t have HIV, I think next. I’m glad I don’t have HIV, I think even more. Not exactly deep thoughts here, but they keep my mind from drifting too far into nothingness, which shitty beer and chicken wings can do.

I say that about chicken wings knowing full well I haven’t eaten a chicken wing in three years. They give me diarrhea. They haven’t always done that, but I’m 44 years old and they do now. I guess that’s what getting old is really about. Shitting liquid. I guess I expected more. Maybe. But probably not.

I look at the stubby red-haired gal. She’s got a chat pal now. Lost out again.

He’s wearing a ripped Bon Jovi “Slippery When Wet” shirt. I’ll give him no props for that. If he looked like the girl’s tits on the shirt, then I’d give him props. Instead, he looks more like Russ Morman, the former Chicago White Sox player. But 25 years older. Of course, I’m thinking of the Russ Morman from the 1987 Fleer set, so maybe it is Russ Morman sitting in this shitty bar hitting on a stubby red-haired girl that I was thinking about fucking but knew I never would so I just stayed up and watched “The Middle.”

Life is funny sometimes.

At least it is in the moving picture shows. I kind of wish I could afford to go see a moving picture show right now. Maybe trade in one of the 10 or so times I saw Pulp Fiction in my first bit of time living in Arizona. Nah. I enjoyed those times. Sitting alone in a theater, usually almost empty, with my box of popcorn and Coca-Cola. I’m sure I used to dream about some beautiful gal coming in an taking me away. And she probably wasn’t a red head.

And she probably did use the phrase “Cock and Balls!” a lot.

fuck that shit

I walked through the old pink doors, Social Distortion’s “I Was Wrong” blared from some shitty bar speakers that had blown out a long time ago. I winced at a bright light from above. I hate lights in bars. They serve no purpose other than to expose the ugliness that you go into the bar to hide.

“Shiner and a Jameson,” I say to Luther, my favorite bartender of the moment.

“You got it Jonesy,” he replies with a finger point, he’s no longer my favorite bartender of the moment, but he does deliver the goods. Which I tip accordingly for.

“You ever going to replace those speakers?” I ask in a raspy, I just took a shot of Jameson voice.

“Nah, you’ll just blow them out again.”

True, one night a few months ago, I jumped behind the bar while American Aquarium’s “Redheads and Adderall” came on. Mostly, I did it to mute the gaggle of sorority girls belting out some Lady Gaga tune over at one of the booths. They had an I-phone with it playing. The worst part of this bar is its proximity to the university. However, it’s also one of its selling points on a cold, lonely night.

“Eh, that was justifiable homicide, Luther. I can’t stand it when I have to hear shrill sounds coming from shallow people.”

“How the fuck do you listen to your own thoughts?”

“Yeah, fuck you then,” I replied, finishing off my Shiner. “Another round, then.”

He took my empty bottle and the shot glass. The bottle shattered in the trash bin after he tossed it about 12 feet to the corner. It amazed me that he never fucking missed that shot. At least when I was around.

“You ever miss?”

“Of course I do. But I’m on my A-game just for you.”

“Fuck off and give me my drinks.”

He filled a shot glass. Then pounded a second on the bar, filling it to the point of overflow, but stopping just in time. “Damn, he is on his A-game tonight,” I thought.

We clinked glasses and downed the shots. It’s going to be another long night, I could tell. At 2:37 p.m. On a Tuesday.

“Where is everybody?” I asked with a grin.

“Guess they heard you’d be here, went over to Charlie’s. A lot less lecherous 40 year olds hanging out there. In fact, I think they don’t let you in anymore, right?”

“Fuck off, Luther.”

“You two bicker like a married couple,” a voice shot out from the darkness. Immediately, I was in love. No matter what she looked like.

“Nah, I’ve asked him at least 100 times. Including the first night I was in this damn bar,” I said. “Dick head always says “I’m not gay, man.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said. My heart skipped another beat. This lady’s got moxie. You don’t see too many in this place with moxie. Most of ‘em have money, yeah, that and pearly white teeth. Impossibly white. My golden teeth certainly don’t fit into mom and dad’s usual plans for their little darlings. Thankfully.

“I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” I say, looking toward the darkness that is the left side of the joint.

Slowly, a shadow creeps out of the dark. She hits the light for a second, then disappears, then reappears.

“Who are you? Antonio Banderas?”

“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?” she says as she sits down next to me. She smells of watermelon. Her hair is, of course, red. It couldn’t have been any other color. Now, whether or not it’s real, I’ll probably never know. At least that’s what I think at that moment of terror.

“Nah, I’m just an asshole who throws shit out and usually, it sticks.”

“My name’s Maddy,” she says, sticking out her hand for a shake.

“Randy,” I reply. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“You going to buy me a drink, or do I have to do it myself?”

“Get the lady a Jameson and Shine,” I say to Luther. He cocks his head a bit. I don’t usually order my usual for the ladies. And usually, they don’t order it either. He looks at her, she doesn’t take her gaze off of me. Luther finally gets a bottle and a shot. She reaches over for the shot, clutches it and swigs it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Was that a test?” she asks.

“Nah, I figured if you didn’t want it, I’d just drink it and then order you a Singapore Sling or something.”

“Fuck that shit.”

I had no chance after that.

“Fuck that shit, indeed.”

bar light

“Damn, you look good under these bar lights,” was all I could muster.

We spent an awful lot of time on barstools during our time together, maybe I’m just remembering those times? Or maybe those awful lights, that can make a blonde look like a redhead and visa versa do something for her? Better not say that out loud, she’ll think I mean she needs those lights, but not at all. She never needs anything. Certainly not makeup. She’s just got it. Whatever it is.

And somehow, she got away from me.

“Yes, I do,” she says smiling.

God, I love her smile. It fits perfectly with her big, brown eyes.

“So, what did you want? It’s been a long time.”

How am I supposed to answer that question? I’ve been thinking of a way to ask what I need to ask for two days now. And 14 beers yesterday and 8 tonight, so far, haven’t given me the answer.

“That can wait,” I mumble while ordering up a couple of drinks -- Abita Amber for me, “the usual” for her.

“You don’t remember my favorite drink, do you?” she said with a wry stare.

“The hell I don’t,” I say, hoping that the bar tender is picking up on this and delivers the beer just in time.

He doesn’t.

“You like Miller Lite,” stumbles out of my mouth.

She smiles.

Five seconds later, the barkeep brings over a cold-ass Abita Amber and…a Miller Lite.

“Good guess,” she says, tilting the bottle back slowly, then absorbing half of the beer in one long draw.

“Sometimes, I even amaze myself. But not too often.”

The tension broken, we start talking about this and that and nothing at all. Things always are like this when we get together. We talk. And we talk. And I don’t think either of us wants it to end, but we both know it has to. Every single time.

After a few beers, the conversation slows down. But not in a bad way. The anxiousness is gone for the most part. Until…

“So……um, why did you need to talk tonight,” she asks. It’s 1:04 a.m. on October 23rd, 2009.

I’m drunk by now. So my filter is gone. Before I know it, the words come out.

“You want to go see a movie tomorrow?”

Her eyes tell the tale. Disappointment. She knows that’s not why I’m sitting in this place, waiting for her to be there. We’re not 23 years old anymore. Hell, I’m almost 40.

“Fuck you, Randy,” she says, grabbing her purse and heading out the door.

I’m too ashamed to chase after her.

She looks back in the window of the bar after she gets outside. I’m still sitting in the exact same place. I grab my Abita and take a long draw.

She shakes her head and gives me the bird.

“You fucking deserved that one, bro,” the bartender says as he takes a dirty rag to the old, wooden bar.

“Yeah, I know,” I’m such a freaking bozo.

“You? A clown? Hell no. My brother, he’s a clown. You’re just a disaster in Sambas.”

“Fuck, man. Do you have to be so damn mean to me. I just got back into town tonight.”

“Yeah, I do. She’ll never do it.”

I ask for another beer. Johnny, the barkeep, he gives it to me. But not without slamming it down on the bar. Just enough to put a new, small dent in the wood -- and cause the bottle to spring into a geyser of foam.

“Bastard!” I yell while swilling down all of the bottle. “Can you play some Aquarium for me?”

He glances at me, then reaches under the bar for an old cardboard box marked “Randy”. He reaches in and grabs an unmarked CD. It’s still in the case I made the last time I was here in the bar that I wanted to buy, but never came up with the cash to do so. Johnny ended up buying it instead. He thinks I’m mad about it, I think. But I’m not. He just had his fucking life together at the right time. Me? I’m still hoping that this time I’m in that place.

He bends down and puts the disc in the bar’s CD player.

For just a second the sounds of some famous New Orleans musician disappears. And all one can hear is the conversations in the bar, which, of course, stop in the silence. J.T. would be proud.

Then the opening riffs of one of my favorite songs not by Mr. Thunders, Mr. Strummer or Mr. Nichols begins…

“She was tall and pale and the queen of her scene….”