 |
 |
Volume III – patio
On my way to the patio,
dying for a smoke, two older
ladies stop J.T at the bar.
They’re all over him, I’m kept
in the corner of their
collective eye.
I mention drinks
and he loses interest,
we pass the big screen,
some tables, and exit
out the glass door
in the back.
On the patio
we arrange our table, the one
with the big, droopy umbrella.
I reach into my pants, grab my
smokes, extract the lighter, and
take an ashtray off the busboy
station in the corner. We sit and
smoke. It’s a good spot and a nice
night, warmer than yesterday.
Our regular waitress, the li’l Mexican
Party Mom, is out. This new one
is kinda tall and square, blonde.
Somehow she remembers us.
“Hey!” She says. “I wondered ... you guys
(she’s struggling, giving us
the kinda look you give the suicidal)
you guys drank more ...
than any two people I’ve ever seen.”
She used to work at Callahan’s and
she’s probably right, we had some times there
before they finally banned smoking.
J. T. sends her away.
She returns quickly and often.
Our conversation, mostly work-related,
slows, and we concentrate on our drinks:
double-scotch for him and seven ‘n
seven’s for me, tons of each, or
gallons, since we’re engineers
dealing in fluids.
A mariachi band plays inside
we only hear it when the door opens,
or when I go to piss.
I’m not sure when the guy
stopped going to the bathroom
but it’s disturbing, and it can’t
be healthy.
I have to lift his heavy old ass
off the parking lot when we leave,
it’s not the first time – bad knees
from the old football injuries, and
he forgets to stand when he’s drinking.
By then he has both ladies’ numbers,
and I’m half in the bag anyway,
so what does it matter.
Click here to read next Volume.