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Volume VIII – Bar Band
Friday night in the armpit of L.A.
The mountains stopped all the shit air
you angels exhaled this week and we
in Irwindale suffered in it.
The bar is packed.
The bartender greets The Judge, the
owner greets The Judge, the waitress
greets The Judge. It’s the ideal entrance
for an old drunk with money.
The patrons look at me with disdain.
I have too much energy; the world
has yet to beat me down and all the
drinkers know it. I know it.
Don’t worry, guys, I tell them with my
eyes, my job is every bit as shitty as yours.
That’s why we’re here, to climb in a beer
and drown. The waitress arrives with drinks
before we even sit down.
This is rich old drunk’s heaven.
And I’m so happy I'm rhyming.
We set up shop at a table in the back.
Ashtrays and cigarettes aligned with
work stories, random bull shit, girls,
and frequent visits from the bar staff.
Then the band comes in. We watch them
closely as they set up next to us, noticing
mannerisms, attitudes, equipment. He, the
former guitar player from New York, and I
with my Washburn lefty bass lessons.
We haven’t heard them yet, but they’re not good
enough for us. The night is cut short and we’re
still two drinks shy of forgetting the week,
in fact, several of them have blended
together.
Neither of us have any idea how many
we’ve had. It’s what’s ahead that matters.
We count our money in the car on the way home
from the next seedy tavern. The Judge is down
one-sixty, maybe eighty, my wad is shy another
fifty. I don’t know how long we stayed, but
it didn’t cut it.
After a week like this, paying for ten barrels
of liquor would not have been enough.
It's the money that makes you feel like
a sinner in the first place.
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