Monday, January 7, 2013

The Night Rob Penner Threw Pretzels At My Head

     The night Rob Penner threw pretzels at my head. It was the first week of 2013, week one of my long overdue, unavoidable, humiliating, soul sucking, sad, degrading, deflating, reluctant bid for yet another summit of Mt. Cheese. By my calculations, it is exactly 17.6 times more difficult to do something you don't want to do than something you do want to do. Anyway, John-Anthony came in all giddy and weird. He's got some exciting plans you know. He orders a Templeton rye and I hand it to him with a soda back. He looks down at it, smiling, stabbing it a few times with the snip. I look over and see Matt Hutchins, his big wide plank of a chest pressing up to the bar. "You're so handsome," he says. 
     "YOU'RE so handsome," I say. It's our thing, it never gets old. We stand there, pointing at each other, smiling. We both know precisely what the other knows, we both know the ridiculousness of pain. I pour him a bourbon on the rocks and move along. Dalton's there, talking it up with some people by the taps. Some dude I have never liked is telling him something. Dalton looks down, nodding, then he slaps the bar hard with a laugh. He points at the guy, wanting to say something, but the dude keeps talking. He runs a hand through his hair, he rubs his wet lips between a thought. As always, he's well dressed, layers of tweed, a vest. I can't see his shoes, of course, but I'm sure they're spectacular. But there's something utterly filthy about him. It's his soul which burns inefficient, like an old beater smoking along the highway. He's young but it is very possible that he will be better than any of us if he can only make it as long as we have. "Where the hell's Chip?" I think. And then wouldn't you know it, I see Chip! He's trimmed his beard a bit. He looks good. He's wearing a cool leather jacket which fits him well. I tell him how much I like his jacket. He smiles and says thanks, knowing I mean it. I'm always struck by his eyes, two of the saddest, most kind eyes to ever twinkle above a beard. And just then I see Mike Burdge. "Hi Mike," I say. 
     "Hi Phil," he says. He then looks around, his hands drumming lightly upon the bar. "Let's see, what do I want?" he says. 
     "I don't know," I say. I really don't. And neither does he.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.