“Hey. So, where’s the damn book?”
That’s the nudge I receive multiple times a week from a fellow horse at our watering hole. You see, I recently had an epiphany (mortgage bill) and moved away from the beach, farther inland. The money I save on payments needs to go somewhere. Why not my liver? Luckily, I found just the spot to give daddy his liquid meds. The most notable thing about my new Cheers! — aside from the lovely doctors — is that it caters to, let’s say, mature men. Of these, I am less mature. Passing days won’t affect that.
The one fellow (Buddy) reminds me of my father. He has his spot at the bar. He has his drink at the bar. He has his meal at the bar. He has his favorite hat. I sorely miss Pop, so seeing my new friend is comforting. Just as Pop would give me a good swat in the keister when I began to slack, Buddy keeps up the tradition.
“It’s stuck in my head, Buddy.”
“A lot of good it’s doing everyone up there.”
“You haven’t written a single word, have you?”
Relentless. I used to come up with all sorts of excuses for Pop. He would put his hand on my shoulder, close his eyes, shake his head, then look back at me with his bullshit detecting hazel blues and dispose of my excuse. I admit my fault.
“No, Buddy, not yet.”
“What’s the hold-up?”
“Guess I just need a little more reminding.”
“Well, get to it.”
An excuse I tell myself is that I’m so distraught over the orange dick-tater in the White House, that I can think of nothing other than poking the elephant. Buddy wouldn’t approve. Another might be that since I have moved to my shiny new home, I’ve gone 0-fer: my damn home is a virgin. “Whose fault is that?” Pop would ask. Fuck. I can’t even suggest that I’m trying and simply mentally constipated.
It’s not like I’m hermitting. I get out. I even took on another job working banquets at a local country club. Yes, I owned a banquet hall for ten years. Yes, I hated it. Still, for some reason, weddings just make me giddy — I mean, as long as I’m not the one kissing to clinking glassware. It’s an interesting experience, mostly because there I am a minority. I’m old and white. The staff is young and brown. There are no walls between us.
Anyway, my point is I meet people. I’m less and less of a mating option, so breaking my house’s cherry is more and more difficult. Also, things like uninterrupted sleep, bourbon by the fire pit, and talking to my cats in cat voices are priorities rising closer to that of spraying genetic goo.
“Where’s the damn book?”
Fine. I’ll unsheath the beast within my jeans and take him out for another twirl around the block. I’ll flirt, stumble around Bumble, and place myself in sexually favorable situations — around drunk women with neglected parts and pity. I’ll seek women way out of my league. I’ll handle rejection like a champ. When the occasion arises, and I finally enjoy that post-coital bliss, her look of disappointment will be soundly addressed as I point to my crotch and say, “I’m sorry. I’m with Stupid.”
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