The Barstool Angel

�C�mon dude, time to wake up.�
        Tim you man-w***e. For those of you who don�t know Tim is my rat b*****d roommate who, for whatever reason, was created to destroy any possibility of rest I might have had.
        �I�ll wake up later� I grunt somewhat audibly.
        �Bro, you wanted me to wake you up at nine. Now hurry up, we can�t be too late; we gotta find you a b***h, son!�
        Yeah, Tim�s one of those guys. He�s a bro if I ever saw one; white but talks like he learned English in Compton, creams himself over Abercrombie and Fitch, and (I wish I was making this up) once cracked a beer bottle over another guy�s head because he thought that Jack Johnson was �overrated�. But I have to say, he has a heart of gold; the only reason he wants to go out so bad tonight is to find me a girl.
        He wants me to get over Lynn, who just broke my heart. Lynn and I�ve been together for almost two years and it was awesome; I doubt it was really perfect but with her out of the picture it really felt like it was. She was a painter from the city (born and raised) and painted some real brilliant s**t on the city; she really knew how to capture an urban jungle on that canvas of hers. She laughed at everything (even if it wasn�t that funny), but she had such an enticing laugh that you couldn�t help but join her. And she had some of the craziest conversations ever; sometimes she talked about complete bullshit but I couldn�t help but listen, I was totally ensnared. I won�t get into details of our bedroom escapades, but just laying next to her made me feel like I was a better person.
        She nagged me to hell though; mostly about my drinking; she actually accused me of being an alcoholic and compared me to my uncle Ted (he�s a complete wino today, only gets out of bed to get another drink). I didn�t appreciate the attack so I started yelling until she finally had enough and left. Right now I�m trying to go sober to prove her wrong (I know, so why is Tim taking me to a bar? Well, bless his heart but he�s not the brightest bulb in the house; heart of gold, but brains like s**t).
        So I hop in the shower. Tim�s taken his already; I can tell because he spilled his axe while he was in there and now the whole bathroom smells like it (�Dude you gotta try it man, brings the b*****s like bees to honey.� He really believes that, I wish I was making it up).
        I go over to the sink and stare into the mirror. I have dark hair and it�s getting shaggy; not totally long, just shaggy (the way I like it). I notice I have a bit of a beard growing; I consider shaving it but decide I like it, and I make a little dash to my room and get dressed. I�m keeping it simple tonight; a pair of tight jeans and a tight black shirt (not �emo� tight, just �fitting� tight). I also grab a pair of oversized dark sunglasses. I know it�s already dark out but I don�t care; I look f*****g cool.
        �You ready Mitch?�
        Tim�s got on his favorite pink polo (Collar popped, of course), pre-holed jeans (Because who has time to rip their own jeans?), and a pair of aviators (See? I�m not the only one.)
        �Yeah, are we taking the bus?�
        We get off the bus and go into the club. Tim gets pulled over almost as soon as we get in by some old college friends; God bless the b*****d I can tell already he�s going to have one hell of a night (he won�t remember it tomorrow, but who needs tomorrow anyway?).
        I look around; the scene seems alright. There are a few guys in a corner eyeing out the room like vultures staring down a dying rabbit; they look like creeps and I doubt they�ll do anything (but they�ll manage to dig up some stories). I see a woman old enough to be my mother in a dress that couldn�t cover my baby sister�s dolls. The maternal street-walker is trying to avoid Father Time further by hitting on the cutest guy she could find in her immediate range (he�s clearly gay but that won�t stop her). I hear a loud thud and turn around; some poor little girl just passed out. At about the same time I turned one of her friends did too and screamed (in my f*****g ear) for reinforcements; two more (high school?) girls come running and find their comrade fallen in the front line. They help her up and carry her out the door; I watch them go out and just manage to see the Unknown Soldier lose her lunch on the sidewalk (and the friend holding up her left shoulder slipping in it).
        I go over to the bar and sit down out of pure habit. Before I get up I notice a girl at the other end of the bar, and I can�t move; she�s wearing tight low-rider jeans that show off a little of her red thong (but not enough to make her look like some bar-skank), a Violent Femmes t-shirt (did I mention I love the Violent Femmes?), and a cool little leather jacket. She has a cascading waterfall of thick, deep red hair that comes just short to these big beautiful brown eyes.
        I send her a drink and get myself a Pepsi; she gets her drink, looks at me, and brings her glass up in �cheers�. I repeat, and she gets up to come talk to me down on my side of the bar. I can tell she�s a little drunk (not wasted though), but she walked down so cool if she asked me for my liver I would�ve cut it out for her myself.
        She sits down, thanks me for the drink and introduces herself. She�s Melanie. I�m Mitch. She has a deep voice; not in a manly way but in a warm way, like Lauren Bacall. The latest dance song to grace commercial radio comes on over the club; we both �ew� then laugh.
        Then we talk about music; what we love and hate about the current scene (we�re both far too dramatic for likes and dislikes), and music goes into television. We make fun of a few bad sitcoms and television goes into movies, then art, and eventually life itself. She talks like a madwoman; she�s incredibly intelligent and she speaks with this unbelievable passion that when she really gets into what she�s saying I�m not sure if she�s going to kiss me or stab me.
        While I�m busy picking out names for our future children in my head (Jack and Denise); some guy comes up from behind Melanie, kisses her neck, and throws his arms around her waist. Slowly I realize that this guy isn�t me.
        Melanie introduces the two of us to each other. Jeff (the guy that�s not me) is wearing an American Eagle thermal sweater, faded jeans, and a knit hat (indoors). I immediately realize that there�s no way that this schmuck appreciates the barstool angel known as Melanie. Jeff left just as abruptly as he entered; only he left with Her hanging her arms around his neck.
        I look around for Tim and find him drunkenly (and happily) hooking up with the previously mentioned mother-skank.
        �Hey, uh don�t wait up for me man. I got a long night planned�� he mutters, to which the aging bar rat nods in agreement while nibbling on his ear. I back away slowly and cautiously, I don�t want to make any sudden movement.
        I�ve never wanted a drink so badly in my life, but I was just tired and sick. I decided that�s enough for one night and hailed down a taxi; I ordered my makeshift chauffer to take me home and stumbled up my steps. I toss off my pants, throw my sunglasses towards my dresser, and climb into bed; I consider making lonely love to my right hand but I�m just too goddamn tired.
        Just before I drift off into the darkness of sleep I wonder why I�m always in bed alone while a******s like Jeff get goddesses like Melanie? What makes me so f*****g special?

Reviews

[Laura E. Aranda]

Awwwwwwwwww
I am really sorry

The story was 'fun' to read, i guess if you like to hear about someone elses pain
I was hoping your ex would show up........hmmmmm can you add on?
haha

cheers, lea

[bailish]

As soon as I read your title, the first image I got was of the movie _It's Wonderful Life_ when George Bailey is sitting next to Clarence on barstools in the bar in Pottersville, and the bartender opens and closes the cash register saying, "Get me. I'm givin' out wings."

Your writing is very smooth. It flows quickly. You also painted a good visual image as I read. This always helps me to get into the writing. Good job!

"spilled his axe" I've never heard this expression before, but I think I got the meaning from context. You cleverly create a few metaphors in this piece.

"Slowly I realize that this guy isn't me. " LMAO!

Very enjoyable read. Great!