Last Call is a new feature. Every two weeks a new story, 300-500 words, usually taking place in a bar, pub, or nightclub. They're true enough but names have been changed to protect the innocent. And the not-so-innocent.
Kamloops, B.C. Cactus Jack’s.
The place is choked with six-foot cowboys wearing hats the size of Dobermans and belt buckles like satellite dishes. Pop-country blaring from the speakers. Wilson dragged me here. I don’t know why. A waitress in jean-shorts and a crop top walks past. I look at Wilson. The Beard nods. I get it.
We down drinks. 1am. The real night-owls are out now. The music is almost deafening. Cowboys stick to the two-foot shuffle; Cowgirls shake it like they just got out of bed. Wilson and I start to roll it up. One of the cowgirls beelines for us. A peroxide blonde with a banana boat tan. She passes Wilson like he isn’t there. The Beard is six-foot-three. In a place like this that’s almost as good as having an F150 and a Stetson. I’m wearing a newsboy cap. I look like Danny DeVito in Hoffa. I’m lucky they let me in the room.
Women who look like this don’t talk to me unless they’re peddling Jesus or trying to steam up their boyfriend. She’s not packing the Holy Spirit, there’s barely room for her in those jeans. That means somewhere there’s an eagle-eyed Bubba slowly turning red. I don’t feel like having my teeth kicked in. Without them I’d have nothing to lie through. My beer is warm now, I take a sip anyways. She runs through the five W’s and tries like Hell to look like she cares. Alarm bells. Past her I see Wilson. The Beard gives me a look. We’re on the same page. He scans the crowd for Bubba. Shakes his head.
So there’s a grassy knoll motive. But what? She’s close now. She smells like peppermint gum. I’ve been hitting it hard all night, my wheels are turning too slowly and she knows it. Wilson’s light bulb flickers on. He gestures towards his head. My hat! Too late, she snatches it from my head. I should have known. They always go for the hat. I don’t know why. It’s old, needs a wash. Dark blue. Wool. Any time I sit in a bar it gets passed around like a joint. Some joker always tries to go home with it. My hat has better luck with women than I do.
She’s playing coy now, talking about how much she likes the hat. I tell her I do too. She says it looks better on her. I tell her that’s not the point. She nimbly steps back and does a little twirl. She makes nice, says something about playing my cards right. Bull. The only thing she’s interested in taking home is my cap. Wilson and I are old hands at this game. The Beard runs interference, I angle in and take the cap off her. She pouts. I could care less. Last call. Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. Render unto me that which is my hat.
You know, my brother used to call me Wilson, but I never thought the Wilson of this story looked like a Wilson. I can't really think of any real names... Maybe something like Grug, or Snorlax.
ReplyDeleteI like coming by here every now and then to see how the writing stuff is going, but I don't like spoiling the in person theatrics. It makes beer taste better, which is astounding.
Onto the next superfluous thought: Ceasar. You should be careful about that rendering stuff. The last guy ended up as a lawn ornament, or you might find yourself on the wrong end of a blood orgy with a bunch of senators.
You know, back in England, I really appreciated all the little pubs and bars. It was real. Not like the night clubs and shite that pervades downtowns everywhere, much like hipsters and starbucks. Maybe I'd be happier if neon clothes, hair bands, and copious amounts of cocaine were still around - But, Cactus Jacks is still pretty real. It's a filthy desperation pit. I guess it's just nice not to have so much contrived derivative BS in your face all the time, or at least the veil is so transparent it doesn't really matter.
Fucking sampans.