Friday night's Jack
It’s a nice bar. Kind of low key. Because it’s still early there’s no crowd.
Friday night’s crowd sucks. Same for Saturday’s.
It’s a nice table. Sometimes, things can be just like that. The little candle throwing it’s shivering glow across the dark wood of the table. A friend of mine, he could tell you what kind of wood anything was just by touching it. Sure, he would look at it. But always he would gently run his hand across it before giving his verdict. This friend of mine, he could throw his guitar into painfully beautiful feedbacks like nobody else.
It’s a nice table, you know. A “good table” is what they call it in the business. By a corner window. Orange streetlights in the empty street. Lower East Side.
In a public place, the trick is not to wipe your eyes. And in a dimly lit bar at night, nobody can tell the difference between spilt Jack and salty water.
It’s just that kind of place. Good music, too. Not too loud. When a Depeche Mode song plays on the Juke Box, you don’t even want to laugh at it or grind your teeth. The kind of place where even a Depeche Mode song can sound good. Almost. And soon enough, there’ll be a good ol’ Cure song. Or Bauhaus. Just to make things even.
Alcohol. Jack. Beer. Jack. Beer. Cigarette.
Remember when you were a kid? sitting in History class, thinking, “What fucking dumbasses those poor, exploited workers. Blowing their paychecks in a single night at the local pub. While back home their children are crying from hunger. Serves ‘em right.”
Yeah... Pretty smart thinking, uh?
And then time passes because, really, that’s all that lousy bastard knows what to do with itself anyway, and you know better. So much better.
Also, you learn that there’s no glory in that knowledge.
Not that there’s any glory anywhere anyway.
It’s a good table. I know that bass line…
Because it’s still early, there’s not too many people. But maybe I said that already.
“ ’Member The Clash, Cecyl?”
“You bet.”
“And ain’t that just a good table?”
“Sure is.”
Great table. In the lingo, they call it “Table #12.” But I could be wrong. Truth is, I never bothered to ask.
Because it’s a good table, I’ll have to leave it. When the crowd come. Those Who Don’t Know.
I like the owners, here. I don’t want to blow there business. Besides, gotta go to work early tomorrow.
This place, you always want to check out what is it exactly the Juke Box is playing. Because it’s damn good.
But before I leave the table, there’ll be another double round. Jack & beer. In the legal drugs category, there’s nothing better.
From behind her counter, A. calls, “Cecyl, you OK?” I mouth, Yes — looking at her from my warm corner of dim light, and as I nod, a big smile on my face, I feel more tears running down my cheeks.
The trick in public places is never to wipe your eyes.
Later, she comes to me, asking what’s wrong? Your all face’s wet!
Also, the trick about never wiping your eyes in public? Sometimes it doesn’t work.
I say I’m OK. Because, in a strange way, I am. I say, Don't worry. She says, You want another shot?
“After the beer, yes.”
Again, she asks what’s wrong. So I tell her as much as I can. As much as I can tell anybody. All it comes down to is: Never take out of your Ignore List someone you put in there. No matter how long ago. I say, My exes, they’re like Blue Boxes. I’m not sure whether that’s the reason they became exes, or whether that’s why they became my girlfriends in the first place. It’s like the story with the fucking chicken and the egg — you can’t tell for sure.
Suicide’s on my fucking mind.
“En somme, t’es comme la peste. En moins bubonique...”
Il rit. Tourné vers le ciel. Il s’est fait renversé par un bus. Le chauffeur ne s’en est même pas rendu compte. Tout ce qu’on a retrouvé de lui c’est son manteau et son dentier. C’est vrai.
Friday night’s crowd sucks. Same for Saturday’s.
It’s a nice table. Sometimes, things can be just like that. The little candle throwing it’s shivering glow across the dark wood of the table. A friend of mine, he could tell you what kind of wood anything was just by touching it. Sure, he would look at it. But always he would gently run his hand across it before giving his verdict. This friend of mine, he could throw his guitar into painfully beautiful feedbacks like nobody else.
It’s a nice table, you know. A “good table” is what they call it in the business. By a corner window. Orange streetlights in the empty street. Lower East Side.
In a public place, the trick is not to wipe your eyes. And in a dimly lit bar at night, nobody can tell the difference between spilt Jack and salty water.
It’s just that kind of place. Good music, too. Not too loud. When a Depeche Mode song plays on the Juke Box, you don’t even want to laugh at it or grind your teeth. The kind of place where even a Depeche Mode song can sound good. Almost. And soon enough, there’ll be a good ol’ Cure song. Or Bauhaus. Just to make things even.
Alcohol. Jack. Beer. Jack. Beer. Cigarette.
Remember when you were a kid? sitting in History class, thinking, “What fucking dumbasses those poor, exploited workers. Blowing their paychecks in a single night at the local pub. While back home their children are crying from hunger. Serves ‘em right.”
Yeah... Pretty smart thinking, uh?
And then time passes because, really, that’s all that lousy bastard knows what to do with itself anyway, and you know better. So much better.
Also, you learn that there’s no glory in that knowledge.
Not that there’s any glory anywhere anyway.
It’s a good table. I know that bass line…
Because it’s still early, there’s not too many people. But maybe I said that already.
“ ’Member The Clash, Cecyl?”
“You bet.”
“And ain’t that just a good table?”
“Sure is.”
Great table. In the lingo, they call it “Table #12.” But I could be wrong. Truth is, I never bothered to ask.
Because it’s a good table, I’ll have to leave it. When the crowd come. Those Who Don’t Know.
I like the owners, here. I don’t want to blow there business. Besides, gotta go to work early tomorrow.
This place, you always want to check out what is it exactly the Juke Box is playing. Because it’s damn good.
But before I leave the table, there’ll be another double round. Jack & beer. In the legal drugs category, there’s nothing better.
From behind her counter, A. calls, “Cecyl, you OK?” I mouth, Yes — looking at her from my warm corner of dim light, and as I nod, a big smile on my face, I feel more tears running down my cheeks.
The trick in public places is never to wipe your eyes.
Later, she comes to me, asking what’s wrong? Your all face’s wet!
Also, the trick about never wiping your eyes in public? Sometimes it doesn’t work.
I say I’m OK. Because, in a strange way, I am. I say, Don't worry. She says, You want another shot?
“After the beer, yes.”
Again, she asks what’s wrong. So I tell her as much as I can. As much as I can tell anybody. All it comes down to is: Never take out of your Ignore List someone you put in there. No matter how long ago. I say, My exes, they’re like Blue Boxes. I’m not sure whether that’s the reason they became exes, or whether that’s why they became my girlfriends in the first place. It’s like the story with the fucking chicken and the egg — you can’t tell for sure.
Suicide’s on my fucking mind.
“En somme, t’es comme la peste. En moins bubonique...”
Il rit. Tourné vers le ciel. Il s’est fait renversé par un bus. Le chauffeur ne s’en est même pas rendu compte. Tout ce qu’on a retrouvé de lui c’est son manteau et son dentier. C’est vrai.
posted by Cecyl at 1:34 AM
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