Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Dreaming Blind - By Ielle Palmer
He's staring at me.
I feel this.
The long pause.
The constant scrapping of his dish rag against the pint glass. He's waiting for an answer and frankly, he can just spin. I didn't come her to satisfy his morose curiosities. I'm not sitting here braving a room full of wanna-has-been-never-will-bes to speak to the likes of him. And yet here we are having a stare off (I think). I should be thinking about Mazzi and how it's his last night. But here I am.
All I wanted was a screwdriver and a wild turkey. How hard is that? A little orange juice, a shitload of vodka, some bourbon. A minor hangover. Something to remember Maz by while I'm being detained by the cops. But the Old Spice laden tit across the counter has jumped in and messed it all up. You can't imagine how much the question comes up during the course of an evening out. It doesn't matter how long someone has known me, or if it's completely irrelevant to the topic. At some point someone, somewhere, mentions it and then I have to come up with an answer.
The establishment's doorbell lets out a tinkle. Another patron has slipped into this Bob Marley-ized world of fruity drinks and umbrellas. Two beats pass and a cheer goes up from the corner. Apparently the party is over there. I don't bother to look... what would be the point?
Old Spice squeaks the glass again. He's closer now. The garlic must be trapped between his teeth. I feel the stench blowing past my cheek. Beside me Mazzi takes a swig from his beer, but his mouth stays shut. He's helpful like that. "Seriously," Old Spice says, "Whas'it like?"
To mess with him or not to mess with him... this is a question. My change flips over and over within my palm. What to do? Pros and cons violently edge their way closer. I sigh and slide the money across the counter, my fingers feeling along for my glass. I refuse to smile when simply answering, "black". Facing his voice, I give him my best fuck off glare (I think). Someone moves the glass to my hand. Whas'it like... how the hell should I know? Not like I have anything to compare it to. What is black?
SSSCK POP. Another cap to another beer is pried loosed by my companion. I feel him moving away. "Don't start" I say, but no one replies. I wait a breath and try to listen over the racket. Nothing. "he asked." I add. No answer. He's still there though. I can smell the cheap hotel soap he stole from work. And if thes themed pub disaster when we had planted ourselves in wasn't blaring such Christ-awlful music, I'd be able to hear his lungs lifting upward. His rock star rail of a body moving raising an inch, only to call back onto his barstool. Running a finger over the lip of my shot glass, I judge the distance to my face and kick my head back, snapping my wrist a bit for added effect. I slap the glass back upside down onto the counter. Not really sure why I do this. I'm told it looks cool. Maz mutters something in German. He's not German and I certainly don't speak the language, which is why he does. Says it gives him a leg up on me. As if the power of sight weren't enough of a head start.
Old Spice has returned.
The garlic now replaced by peppermint schnapps. I can't decide if this is an improvement. "Look, I didn't mean nuffin'"
"Nobody ever does." I say. My angel sighs. Old Spice is quiet. Best guess? He's sizing up my wiry escort. After another second of silence he tries again.
"It's just," he leans closer. Apparently I'm deaf too. "Well, we ain't never seen eyes like yers."
"I'll have to take your word on that."
"They're almost white!" Mazzi lifts my drink from my hands and pours it directly onto the counter. I feel the cold liquid strike my skin, the smell of 80 proof rising up around me. A gasp, and something snaps. Heat snakes its way towards my arm. Someone knocks me aside and the shouting begins. Apparently the counter is ablaze. Old Spice isn't pleased, either. Hands wrap around my shoulder and side. They lift me forward and speed me across the hardwood floor. Falling out onto the front sidewalk, I begin to laugh. It's times like these that I'm going to miss. How will I ever live without him?
Boredom, the great motivator. It was how we found ourselves in the shithole Caribbean themed bar in the east end tonight. It was how we met, how we moved in together and how he claimed to have come up with the idea for lighting Old Spice's bar up. I get up and begin to dust myself off. When tagging along with a man like Maz, it's important to know the basics of the duck and roll. It's the difference between a fun story or a night in the ER.
Away from the Beatles and Clapton regalia occurring inside, I'm suddenly able to pick things out again. Leaves scraping their edges along cement. A plastic bag dancing its away across the empty evening asphalt. Maz muttering under his breath in German. He's playing with the patch I put on his old black sports coat. It's crooked, so he says. What didja expect, I told him. You want it better, learn to sew. He doesn't mention it anymore, but I can hear his nails pick away.
Footsteps with voices drift close by. A young couple, from the sounds of it. He hushes her, stepping their shoes up a beat. Yes, run away. Run away from the little decrepit girl and her crazy Injun escort. Look out we don't scalp you! I wonder if Maz is wearing his "Sitting Bull got f#*ked" t-shirt. Now that would be a laugh. Certainly his clashing pistols inspired wardrobe helped quicken their pace. He's wearing a padlock and a chain, James! Did you see her hair! Oh hurry ma, he's coming closer!
I smile.
"What'da you grinnin' at?" my native guide asks.
"Life." This answer seems to please. He walks a few steps away, thinks better of it and spins about his soles, rounding back to take my arm. My seeing-eye man. They'll give me a cigarette when the time comes. I don't even like the damn things, but I'll probably take it. I'll be needing one.
... TO BE CONT'D
submitted at 3:06 PM
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