Thursday, October 06, 2005
Life is full of difficult decisions. Do I want to pay attention to this exciting baseball game, or do I want to pump quarters into that Dirty Harry pinball machine over in the corner?
The bar was dim, clean, and cozy. Members of a pool league sat on stools around the lone billiards table. All were men, and all had odd physical traits: disproportionally short legs, pockmarked faces, uneven mustaches, harelips. They hollered profanities and chuckled about scrotum stubble. Rolls of fat threatened belts. The shirt of an off-duty cop read "I don't give a fuck about your problems."
The pinball machine stood blinking and unloved by the entrance to the men's room. I sauntered over for a game. Before I could pump a few coins, an ammoniated wind of chemical cleanser and bold urine gusted from the doorless men's room, singing my nosehairs. Piss footprints in the bathroom hallway caught florescent light from a Rolling Rock sign, illuminating dance step instructions for the perpetually drunk. I farted quietly and went back to the bar.
I planted on a stool and watched the White Sox play on a yellow tinted television. The sound was mercifully muffled. Some asshole kept punching Aerosmith songs into the jukebox. Another shit kept buying scratchoff tickets from the Illinois Lotto "Have A Ball!" vending machine. A blinking LED display above the machine exclaimed "You could win right now!" Fuck you.
Pitchers of domestic were cheap. I drank four. I got high outside with the off-duty cop. He couldn't pronounce any Japanese names. He asked me to say "Tadahito Iguchi" five times fast. I did. "Well goddamn, son."
It was late, so I left. If I came in late for work on Thursday, my boss would rap my desk with the cheap gavel he got for donating money to Newt Gingrich several years ago. It's engraved and obnoxious. I was on time today, so no gavel thwackings. My intestines hurt. 3:53 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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