barfly tendencies

“Ever read a guy named Bukowski?” he said, stroking the scar on his

thumb.

“Charles Bukowski?” I said.

He nodded.

“Some.”

He smiled. Smirked, really. “He knew something,” he said. Then looking

away, he muttered something under his breath.

“What’s that?”

Now, his eyes were closed. “He knew about the logical progression of

human beings.”

“Hmm?”

“We progress from wearing our faces frontwards to eventually…” He

paused slightly. “Wearing them backward.” He shrugged. “The logical

progression of human beings.”

My instinct was to nod, but I figured it would only encourage him, so I

stifled the impulse by thinking about a girl I used to know in Palo Alto, a

certified financial planner, who kept trying to convert me to Scientology.

“Yep. Bukowski knew a thing or two,” he said

His nods were hypnotic. Infectious. Pretty soon, I found myself nodding to

the rhythm of his nod.

“Ever think you’re misunderstood?” he said.

I had to think about that for a minute. “No, not really…”

“Hunh,” he said and ordered another vodka martini. “Life’s such an

aberration. When I was about twenty, twenty-five, I used to go around

tellin’ everybody I was misunderstood…didn’t matter who it was…family,

friends, strangers, Jehovah Witnesses… ’course everybody’s narcissistic

and living in their heads a little too much at that age. Still, I was a f*****g

a*****e about it…I’d monopolize every conversation…I’d make damn sure

you were aware of what a complex guy I was, even though, you know, I

was just some f*****g a*****e spoiled b***h with chips ahoys on my

shoulder who didn’t know the difference between pissing and f*****g. It

was all the same to me. Still is, to a point…but I’ve…hate this word…

evolved…. I hate that word…I’m too old to have evolved…or should I say

too insensitive…” He smirked. “But the s**t of it all is, I got all kindsa

p***y back then…and now?” He had a maniacal little smile. “Hardly get

any at all…how does that work? Chrissakes, I haven’t lost all my looks

yet. Still, gotta little sex appeal buried beneath this disheveled

exterior…most my hair’s gone, alright, so, you know, a few wrinkles, but

Jesus Christ, doth hair and a smooth face a man make?” His voice was

becoming hoarse. He had to clear his throat several times. He reached into

his coat pocket, pulled out a pack of Camel studs, and lit one. “Are you in

love?” he said.

I shook my head.

“Have you ever been in love?”

I nodded.

“Have you ever run from love?”

I nodded.

He snickered. “I do the run-from-love in like two point five seconds…

nobody can beat my time.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I get accused all the time of being too melancholy and not ambitious

enough… helluva combination, boy…one without the other’s difficult

enough, but you put ‘em both together? Forget about it…it’s a harsh

reality, boy, but a reality you must reconcile yourself to or risk a

lifetime of…” He stopped himself. “Never attempt to perpetrate on five

vodka martinis; it’s a no-win situation.” He rubbed his neck and winced.

“Funny, how we keep going, though…and going and going and going…”

He paused a moment to see if I still had a pulse. “You’re not saying

anything…you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t talk much, do ya?”

I shook my head.

He shrugged. “That’s cool…talking’s overrated, anyway…problem with

people is that they have too many opinions…not enough sitting around quietly

meditating, watching their breath…so many contradictions, so little

equilibrium…that’s man right there in a nutshell for ya.”

That’s when the bartender approached him. “Call for ya.”

“Who is it?”

“Some broad.”

“Scuse me, kid,” he said, getting up from his stool. “The triangle awaits.”

He limped toward a side door that said “Private” and disappeared behind it.

I signaled the bartender for the tab.