Death At A Swinging Nightclub

Part 25 of 30

There's Death In Those Thar Drawers

It had been a long time since I was out to a swinging nightclub. As much as you think me the consummate cosmopolitan know-it-all, I’m actually quite inexperienced and innocent. I have a hard time talking about anything but the weather. So I don't try anymore. On any given night, instead, I'll put moisturizing cream on my face and let it cake, then hit the bed, reading some old Reader’s Digest hardbacks my grandparents left me when they passed. I’m definitely not setting the woods on fire, nor do I think it’s even a good idea.

Occasionally, though, I drive by a nightclub and survey the whole thing. It’s been about a year ago that I was so worked up about the obscenity of society and the things people are willing to do -- and they get away with it, too, ‘til they’re caught or diagnosed. I was thinking of this series and thought I should brush up on my outrage at society’s ways. So out I went! Parking behind a dumpster and walking nonchalantly up the sidewalk and around the building. The windows being draped, there was nothing to see, so I had to walk in. Right away the head waiter saw me and came over with a limp dishtowel over his arm and serving tray. He told me a table wouldn’t be available for an hour. I looked over and saw people strung out, entangled, arm in arm, pants strewn about, dresses unzipped, and coffee getting cold.

It might not look like a good idea, but I did have a good idea what was going on. Which can be summed up in one sweeping indictment: There’s death in them thar drawers! His drawers, her drawers, and all the drawers that drew them together and sketched out that bleak picture of lust once strong and now obscured in lifelessness, limpness, letting it all hang out, not presenting a good picture, nothing I’d like to be caught dead at, spread eagle like some or more demurely curled up and hidden under a table. The light’s never that great in those places.

I know what happens at these places, and that death is never far away from the participants. With the saddest commentary on the situation being, there’s always someone else just old enough and unwise enough to boldly take those people’s place when they’ve passed. Sweep ‘em out, call in the shadiest undertaker you can find, let the evidence be obscured, no one has to know, and the show goes on! Put in brighter lights if it helps the bottom line. Put in dimmer lights if the body count’s out of whack. Close the bathrooms for “cleaning” if the johns are piled up with the johns . Sweep the floor, and for most of those men’s rooms, make sure you mop it! Those drawers are a mess, and death has come for “them thar” people whose turn, unfortunately, it was.

Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall

Probably the first thing you notice is that I'm advertising a pool hall, in fact wishing you Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall. I've only been hanging out here about a month and already Gus heard I had a blog and a good reputation for web design, so he spotted me a few drinks for coming up with this ad.

The extraordinary thing about all this is that I'm even in a pool hall. And that I'm actually getting over the guilt, since a bunch of the guys here have really befriended me. They're very friendly, and of course they get friendlier as the night goes on, not being afraid to put a few away.

But me ... in a pool hall! Which was a dirty word when I was growing up. Anyone -- you, your dad, anyone -- who went to a pool hall was scum of the earth. They were drinking away their paycheck, their kids were dirty and poor, and they didn't belong in polite company. But now here I am! And while all that is absolutely true -- I've never seen such dysfunctional families -- the guys are honestly very friendly ... and generous with their paychecks, buying drinks, treating me to pool games, etc.

I made this big switch in my personal life when my Mom died in August. It's been a hell of a year. The thing is, you see, she was the one who came up with the rule against pool halls. It was "God's will," and all the rest... That would be the same God who took my Mom. Kind of a downer, first giving her cancer, then making it so she was the wrong blood type to get the best radiation, then complicating things with her diet so she'd waste away, and finally ... the bitter end. Right then I vowed what anyone in my skin would say: That's the way you wanna play it, I'm going to pool halls!

The weird thing about my childhood was: We always had a pool table! I think Mom and Dad were trying to convey to us that good families could still play pool, just not at pool halls. We played Rotation, 8-Ball, and a game I made up called Jackoslovitch, which was kind of like hockey, played with pool cues broadly swiping the table. Now, of course, those days are long gone. Everyone's dying off. We're all getting old.

I think about Mom all the time, too, at the pool hall. Hoping that maybe she's not that ticked off in Heaven, since, after all, I am 60, old enough to veer off the straight and narrow path from time to time, depending on how I choose to live.

Hey, hey! A truck driver kind of guy, a big burly Dutchman -- Jake -- just came in the door. They act like I'm "the Professor," since I know big words and still act a little uptight. I'm also the kindest guy here, but I'm hoping to get coarser as time goes on. But, really, doesn't the world need sweet guys too?

About the advertisement -- Hope you like it. We really do wish that Happy Thoughts Caress You at Christmas. And that Good Old Santa doesn't forget you and yours. Christmas is for the whole family, but I always say it's really all about the kids. And I'm thinking I'll probably try a few interventions with some of the guys here, to get them to not waste their whole paycheck on drinks. A few's nice, yes, but I don't like the idea of kids suffering. Definitely not at Christmas. I'm going to call that my strictest rule.

That's it! Happy Holidays! All the best of the season! And stop in for a game!

Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
Rack them balls up anyhow!

Drink With Us On the Bus

I've seen this bus around many times, and probably the less said the better. I've had to stop and think a few times what's going on. I'm still not 100% sure, but right now my best guess is that they shuttle people in, then see that they get home safely after drinking. If that's not it, I'm sorry. I'm not identifying the bar, so as not to misrepresent their policy.

But you might get the impression, since it says, "DRINK WITH US ON THE BUS," that you're going to be literally drinking on the bus with these particular ladies, or others. With all sorts of possibilities that could follow, including parking at some secluded spot out by the lake, with one guy, a burly bartender, standing guard against bushwhackers. Again, I don't know ...

Let's say that not what's going on. I accept that. But what if you had a guy who thought, Hey, ladies that want to drink with me on the bus! We're looking in on this little scenario as the screen goes wavy, then we focus in on a particular guy, whom we'll call Walt. Walt has just entered The Drinking Bus Zone.

Walt approaches. The bus is very dark and obviously no one's there. "I'll have them all to myself!" he says with relish, then jimmies the door and gets in. Now it's just a matter of waiting. So he's sitting there, occasionally looking out the window. They must live around here, since this is their bus. But the night is wearing on and no one's coming by for drinks.

As Walt gets a little groggy, he stands and walks around. He sits in the driver's seat, commandeering the bus in his imagination, and taking the girls out for a spin. Where they're going, no one knows, not even him. But they'll know when they get there. One possibility would be a cool nightclub, where they wouldn't have to drink on a small bus.

Although, it might be a better plan just to drink on the bus; with such a small space there'll be less competition. Maybe just Walt and these six! He takes a long lingering look at the one on the right end. The bar on the window really accentuates things. Everything above her mouth looks like a cowl. Still, that's just a picture, she has a normal head.

Time passes, and Walt's rooting around in some stuff, when he pulls out a cooler, a pretty good-sized cooler. It wouldn't hurt to set out some drinks, just to be ready when they show up. One here, that's his, and six around a small table. He gets thirsty after a while, of course, with the temptation, and drinks his own. Then reasoning that he can always refill their glasses when they get there, he goes around the table drinking each one.

After another round or two, the picture on the windows is starting to come to life, almost. They're certainly doing a halfway seductive dance, which has to be fun to see. Walt puts his arms out for a huggy-bear, then drops them. Playing hard to get, eh? He looks up, bleary-eyed, and makes some suggestive remarks. No bushwhackers are in sight, and it's only natural. But still, they're reticent.

Pretty soon, a cop comes around.

Out Drinking With Death

I'm very shaken up. It's weird, I'm usually so calm, but this is craziness hit crisis proportions. Can you really believe the price of drinks? I'm old -- I remember 25 cent draws and dime pitchers! So to say I'm aghast is an understatement; this goes way beyond that!

Why haven't I been out binge drinking in decades? you ask. I've never been that great at making friends. But now -- it's bizarre -- I got to know Death himself, and it's like we're inseparable. I hadn't seen him since the other day, when he guest-blogged on my site. Then he was suddenly gone, just vanished. Then this past Saturday, early afternoon, during breakfast, I noticed a black mist -- kind of dark in color -- taking shape at my table. There he was again.

Of course I asked, "What's up?" and he shrugged his shoulders. I had an immediate suspicion that he'd been out on his unique business, so I just said it, "Spill the beans." He put his hands up in mock surrender, as if to say, "You got me." In enumerating his deeds over the past couple days, he went on and on. For him it was a typical day, nursing homes, hospitals, alleys, schools, prison showers. He yawned, then perked up when he told me about an elephant sitting on a guy in the circus up in Minneapolis. I said, "How'd that happen?," genuinely curious, and he just smiled, "Must've slipped ... or something."

Anyway, now that we're friends, I suggested that we go out to one of the local watering holes and tip back a few. Even though I don't drink much, usually, it's proverbial that a few stiff drinks can wash your troubles away. Death looked at me like he was stunned, and then smiled, saying, "You know something? No one's ever asked me to go out like that, I appreciate it..." It's true, I'm an extremely nice guy.

We got to the bar and settled in with a couple beers. Then I had another beer and a whiskey chaser. He said, "Ah, a boilermaker." I said proudly, "Yup, that's the ticket." At least I thought it was the ticket till the barkeep told me the price of admission, very high; I was stunned.

Pretty soon, I was brought moderately back to reality when Death killed a guy for wasting seltzer water and hogging the bottle. The guy was out with his buddies, and apparently hadn't gotten the memo that such a thing was a mortal sin. I thought, "What? You just killed a guy?" but really what can you say when everything you say might be used against you? I chalked it up to "Better him than me," and proceeded to have another drink, and at these prices, it was shocking!

Well, you know me, drinks go right through me; the alcohol settles in my liver and I'm immediately drunk, but the remainder heads straight for the exit -- I had to pee. I was in the can, trying not to make eye contact, but still looking very interested at the graffiti. How do people have enough privacy to write such filthy things? "For a good time, call...blah blah blah." Shocking. And of course disgusting drawings of anatomically correct figures in flagrante delicto. It's all revolting, my senses were shocked. Just then I heard a scream.

I rushed out to see quite the row, screaming, shouting, some pushing their way to the doors, only to be pushed back by police on their way in. I thought, Just what I need, to be made a public spectacle in the company of these losers. But the spotlight wasn't so much on me as on two fresh corpses draped over the pool table, and Seltzer Guy. I glanced over at the bar and Death was still sitting there like nothing happened, nursing an overpriced drink. The police swarmed the place looking for the lowdown.

I said I'd been in the can when it all went down. I glanced over at Death to vouch for me but he had vanished. The police thought I looked shifty, I guess, so I answered a few questions. Did I have any idea what happened? I tried my best to beg off, till at long last, I blurted out, "It looks like Death got them!" I wasn't smarting off, but that's how they took it. I only managed to get them back on my side by complaining vociferously about the cost of drinks these days. One of the officers was about my age, and he also remembered with fondness the cheap drinks of yesteryear.

The guys from the County Morgue came and emptied the trash, at long last freeing up the pool table and seltzer bottle. I went home -- don't worry, Death drove -- but even being lubed as I was, I still couldn't stifle my loud disgust at today's prices. Yes, three guys were dead, but I bet those beers were three fifty a draw! It was a complete shock to my system.

Lincoln Upsets Washington, And Ghosts

Ready for a freaky story, true in every detail, right down to the ectoplasm spewing from the lady's mouth? This happened just as I'm writing it, and it was just yesterday, so it's clear -- crystal clear -- in my mind.

I was at the Heaven bar for the championship basketball game between the Washington Eagles and the Lincoln Panthers. It was exciting, not just because we watched it on the big screen, but for the obvious fact that Washington and Lincoln are high schools from the same town. Meaning we were all mixed together, with periodic clashes, like with every lead change.

Thanks to Washington having cut down the cherry tree, of course the Eagles feasted on cherry pie. But because Lincoln isn't associated with any particular food, they were eating a la carte. This turned to the Panthers' advantage, because there's nothing Washington can razz them about when it comes to food. But the cherry pie thing can be deadly when Washington loses the lead, and they have to suffer the famous Lincoln quote, used as a taunt, "If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six sharpening my axe."

But the Panthers hate this taunt of Washington's just as much: "We should never despair, our Situation before has been unpromising and has changed for the better, so I trust, it will again." Lincoln sees in that a mean-spirited reference to the Assassination, Washington as much as saying, "Wait 'em out! Lincoln can't go the distance! He couldn't finish a stinking play, he doesn't stand a chance at basketball..."

OK, I was paying close attention to the game as it went back and forth and as the bar rocked with cheers, boos, and the occasional, but rare, flying hatchet. But there was something else going on in the bar. Every TV was tuned in to the game, every one except one, a small set in the corner being watched by local psychic Madame Sosotris. Always in touch with two worlds, she was watching Ghost Hunters.

For most of the time, those watching the game prevailed, as far as the noise, but the psychic was tolerated and semi-respected when she would periodically whistle and call for silence. We'd look over and hear a brief comment on her program, such as, "Grant just saw an eerie light at the end of the hall!" Then it'd go to commercial, and when it came back, she'd learn it was just Jason's flashlight. We'd go back to the game, only to be interrupted a few minutes later with a whistle and again the silence, "Jason just heard a thump in the wall!" After the commercial, she'd announce, "It was just Grant in the next room tapping the wall."

Everything was building to a climax in the game, Washington and Lincoln exchanging the lead as it came down to the final minutes and seconds. Hatchets and cherry pies were flying around the room, and a few of the Washington partisans had grabbed the fake Lincoln beards from the Panthers and were throwing them as well. Then as the last few seconds wound down, the score tied, Lincoln stole the ball from Washington and hurried down the floor for the game-winning shot.

It was pandemonium in the Heaven bar, total chaos, until it was amazingly broken and silenced by the presence of Madame Sosostris literally floating through the place, ectoplasm spewing from her mouth and the stuff forming enormous mounds wherever they fell. The Ghost Hunters show had actually hit on something important! She brought a message -- President Washington's concession to Lincoln -- channeled through Grant and Jason:

"There is a Destiny which has the control of our actions, not to be resisted by the strongest efforts of Human Nature. I shall not be deprived of a comfort in the worst event, if I retain a consciousness of having acted to the best of my judgment. We'll get these Lincoln bastards next year!"

Criminals Drink Freely On My Dime

There's a lot to learn when you enter the world of the criminal, as I have. You think normal society is tough, paying your bills, taking care of yourself, telling phone salespeople you're not interested and don't call back, letting the dog out all the time, and staying happy. The life of the criminal isn't that much better, except of course it's much more thrilling being on the run with the constant threat of being killed.

Already, in just a few days, I've had to learn how to cope with being severely beaten without calling an ambulance, and to have the confidence to hold a switchblade up to the throat of a professional wrestler who's served both as my lover and abuser. And it wasn't just the switchblade [chuckling], I guess I also ground his face in the gravel in the alley. :) One other thing, I'm getting down the pecking order, and I'm seeing how I might be able to rise in the organization. Some of these guys aren't that smart, which is what you get when you're hopped up and crazed on drugs and booze.

So booze has its advantages and its disadvantages. If it helps me gain greater power as a criminal, that's good. I'm myself not much of a drinker, having the discipline to severely limit myself. But these other birds, crazy and stupid like I said, I could easily get them drunk, kill a few, and establish myself as Mr. Big in, I don't know, a few days. Give or take. But right now I'm still the new guy.

One thing about being the new guy is "they say" the new guy has to buy for everyone. And wouldn't you know I'd have to be the new guy on Super Bowl Sunday! So we were over at the bar -- Youngsie's -- and I learned that Johnny, the boss of this particular gang, a subset of a larger organization, had already opened a tab in my name. Whether Youngsie liked that, who knows? He probably didn't have a choice. Just like he didn't have a choice when I stopped in for a pickle and Beer Nuts today and couldn't pay.

So yesterday, all the Guys and Dolls came out of the woodwork and were at Youngsie's. My tab was open and they were helping themselves freely. It was literally a free-for-all, with Youngsie looking at me and giving me a thumbs-up every once in a while, really a kind of question. I kept flashing him a thumbs-up. They started in about noon, then the game was about 5, and it went a few hours, then the post-game BS was on, etc. All around, guys were paying up on bets, blah blah blah, but no one offered a cent of moolah for the drinky-poos.

Today, then, I went in -- me, Big Brute, and a couple other guys. Youngsie looked pained. Everyone had drunk so much and ate so much yesterday he was about out of everything. I thought, WTF do I care about your business? Then I realized the connection. He wasn't going to give me the damned pickle (and he was out of Beer Nuts) till I settled up! He needed the cash to pay his supplier, which about drove me crazy. I felt my face go flush. I reached up and clicked my fingers. I'm no boss but all this happened on instinct.

A couple of the other boys took my signal and charged over to beat the crap out of Youngsie and a couple of his boys. Then I took up a bottle and smashed it randomly against some of the bottles he had behind the bar. What a mess! The guys held Youngsie and I delivered a solid fist to his gut. "That's a down payment on what I owe you," I spat, feeling quite impertinent, lacking a pickle but very full of piss and vinegar.

We went triumphantly to the pickle jar and I proclaimed, "Pickles for everyone, my treat!" My last word to Youngsie as we left was, "Put it on my tab!" I laughed. Big Brute slammed the door and broke the plate glass window. I looked in at the still hunched over Youngsie and said, "That goes on his tab!," referring of course to Brute.

Incredible Atmosphere At This Bar

The minute I walked in the room, she could tell I was a man of distinction.

I was dressed like usual, including your usual brimmed cap. Leading the solitary woman at the bar to ask me if I'd been fishing. Oh, baby, with a come on like that, I love it! "No," I said, "I haven't been fishing for years. Why, do I smell bad?"

"Maybe you do but I can't tell from here," she was direct, "it's just the cap made me think of fishing, that's all."

"No, and I'm not really a cap guy, but my doctor thought I needed to wear one, you know," (I gestured at the ceiling where the sun would be if we were outside and it was daylight), "the dangers of skin cancer..."

Right away, I thought, no one mentions skin cancer, that's crazy, and I'm not -- I'm probably not -- in any danger of skin cancer. But that's what most people think, then, WHAM!, the doctor lays the bad news on them.

I looked around. This bar had an incredible atmosphere, small, cozy, a sweet little place that no one ever goes, except for a group of people out on the fire escape, a few people in the front room, then off to the side a few more, then me, then the bartender, and finally the solitary woman at the bar.

The bartender told her, "I'm cutting you off." She didn't seem sloshed, but she was loose enough to ask about my cap.

She clinked her glass a little, giving the ice something to do. I looked down, thinking this would be a great time to share a laugh if only something funny would happen. The bartender needed to go to the bathroom, so who would he trust to watch the tip jar? It was just her and me. I knew he could trust me; we've met before, whether he realized it or not. But she was telling him he could trust her.

He unzipped his pants and went off to the bathroom, perhaps not in that order. That left two people in the actual barroom, me ... and her. This doesn't happen to me very often, like this is the first time. I told her about the community event I'd just come in from. Then she got a call and complained that her phone doesn't work very well if her fingers are wet.

At that point, I got up and made my way to another room. To be, as it turned out, by myself in the dark. In the room you see in the picture above, with the three dim lights. Incredible atmosphere at this bar!

The bartender came out of the bathroom and was spiffing up the place. He wondered aloud whether the woman at the bar had bothered me. I said no, that I just wanted to be in this other room for a while. I needed to get the picture of the three lights for this blog. So there I am, arranging the tables, propping up the camera. This is one of those cameras where you have to push a virtual button (iPod) to take the picture, so that's what I did. It's a lovely picture, isn't it?

Then I dialed a service I subscribe to, a labeling service, and told them the caption I wanted to put on it, "INCREDIBLE ATMOSPHERE AT THIS BAR." I sat there nursing a Guinness while they worked on it. Then they messaged me right away, so I had to pull the Guinness away from my breast and confirm that I got it back.

I couldn't help thinking later, in one of those reveries that men have -- even well-established, safe-living men like me -- of what might've happened with the solitary woman at the bar. "Hey baby, do you date younger men?" "What do you mean younger men? You're pressing 60!" "Yeah, but with just these three dim lights, I have to look 20 years younger!"

Then, let's say I was married. She'd go, "Are you married?" And I'd go, "My wife! God rest her soul!" "So she's passed on?" "No, I'm just saying God rest her soul!"