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Driving, Drinking and Writing
Aug. 28th, 2013 01:38 amIn an effort to cut back on my nicotine intake, I've recently enacted a new rule whereby I only allow myself a cigarette when I drive, drink or write. Relax, I only do the last two simultaneous. The first exception is just common sense. I'm not ready to have a nic-fit on the road because the way some of these mother fuckers drive somebody's going to jail or the hospital. Neither an affordable option. The second, well because to be honest one vice compliments another nicely and many a time it was only riding on my last Camel that I managed to escape the gutter Mister Daniels put me in. The third... is because I have some serious work to do, miles of narrative to lay down and I keep grinding my wheels in mud of the first 60 pages and I can't claw my way out if I'm trying to scratch an itch.
Recently I got called into the downtown Terminus Writers' Union office about it. My review officer was super-pissed. There had been rumors, unsavory and persistent, that I had been using performance enhancing muses to crank out my dispatches.
"Not me, Boss." I rolled up my sleeves before straightening my arms out for inspection. "Been cold turkey four months now. Haven't touched a drop of the Whispering Ladies since."
My review officer wagged unimpressed eyes at me. "Oh we have tests, Mister Babalon. Tests that pierce much deeper than the blood."
"'Course you do."
"Additionally, there have been reports of you being intoxicated on the Hornet Venom."
"That was an accident."
"Which is what you assured me was the case last time we spoke." He gave a cursory glance at my file, having already memorized the incident, the date and the signed reprimand long before I arrived.
"Ttt... what are you going to do?" I went to light a cigarette but remembered the rules and just let it hang from my mouth. "Dock my pay?"
My review officer simply waved the imaginary smoke from his face and with a lopsided ghoul grin asked. "How's the next novel going, Jack?"
I pointed a finger at him and realized I had nothing to say long after opening my big mouth.
My review officer giggled, the way little girls giggle when dancing on a grave, and summarily dismissed me from the office.
Later that night I hit a bar in the 04W to rendezvous with the Contact. I arrived early for Operation Reload and sat at the bar nursing a glass of Irish Gold. There was a woman sitting a few stools to my left. There was no TV and I have never been much for small talk with bartenders. Nothing personal. I just try not to bother anybody while they're working and my days as a doorman taught me that there's nothing worse than dealing with an inebriated customer. After all the customer is always right, or so they believe after they've had a few.
So, with my phone devoid of any built in game to whittle my attention away, I have to settle for checking out the room. Which inevitably lands my eyes on hers. Which is when she says - "Hey."
And with a shrug, I asked - "Hey?"
She slid over. Up close revealed a woman fairly younger than me but dressed professional in a black suit. Hair dark as the Chattahoochee on a moonless night, face bright as a late summer day. Her figure worn with confidence as was her smile.
She gives me a name. I give one back. She asks if I'm with someone. Pretty forward, but such is luxury of youth, so I answer honestly when I say no. I am, she laughs, he's in the bathroom. Without asking she calls over the bartender and orders me another drink.
"Oooookay. " I downed the first one and toasted her my appreciation before rising to flee to the other end of the room.
It's not like that, she assured me stopping my retreat with the faintest laying of hand upon my arm. Her boyfriend was down.
"With what?"
She spelled it out. Slow. Apparently her kicks come voyeur style. The solution was simple, me and her man, who I was promised was a very fetching young man, were going to wrestle in the manner of the Greeks. Big bear me. Apollo lithe him. Only when beauty's tamed the beast may he mount the crown victorious.
I contemplated the proposition. "Which one of us is the 'beast'?"
She nodded at me.
"And what happens if 'Beast' tames the 'Beauty'... as is often the case in the natural world? Would the crown be mine to mount?"
That was a big N-Oh-Hell No to both the former and the later.
"Likewise then." I retorted figuring that's that.
But then she sweetened the deal. She pulled out of her purse a yellow jacket the size of an old action figure. The thing sat calmly in the palm of her hand, staring menacingly at me, while it cooed out this obscene noise part buzz and part purr. Affectionately she stroked the wings of the wasp and licked the bottom of her lip in anticipation of my need. A stinger waved behind the creature like an excited puppy.
I dry gulped and told her to put that thing away before we both got kicked out.
She complied and told me that the creature was mine to take back to the privacy of my own home. Best of all, I didn't even have to go to hers to get the job done. Her man was waiting for me in the shitter and was going to film the whole incident off his phone. All I had to do was be willing to 'gay out' a little and I'd be straight on hooking up with some quality hornet venom.
"Uh-huh." I finished my drink just as the Contact arrived.
The Contact strolled over, took a look at the young business woman and told her to walk. The woman looked at me with raised eyes and the Contact told her that wasn't a request. The young lady got up calmly. Collected her translucent drink and purse stuffed with a giant yellow jacket. Before abandoning the bar for a booth, with a courteous smile she whispered: "Good luck with the book, asshole."
I ordered myself another round and one for my hero, the Contact.
The Contact told me I still had that hornet junkie vibe going and then laid a little smoke magic on me to cloak the stink. With a secrecy worthy of the highest echelons of Freemasonry, we shook hands exchanging green for green. I quickly lit up a cigarette as the bartender returned with our drinks and a warning: "You can't smoke here, man."
"It's okay." I reassured him. "I can when I'm driving, drinking or writing."
Recently I got called into the downtown Terminus Writers' Union office about it. My review officer was super-pissed. There had been rumors, unsavory and persistent, that I had been using performance enhancing muses to crank out my dispatches.
"Not me, Boss." I rolled up my sleeves before straightening my arms out for inspection. "Been cold turkey four months now. Haven't touched a drop of the Whispering Ladies since."
My review officer wagged unimpressed eyes at me. "Oh we have tests, Mister Babalon. Tests that pierce much deeper than the blood."
"'Course you do."
"Additionally, there have been reports of you being intoxicated on the Hornet Venom."
"That was an accident."
"Which is what you assured me was the case last time we spoke." He gave a cursory glance at my file, having already memorized the incident, the date and the signed reprimand long before I arrived.
"Ttt... what are you going to do?" I went to light a cigarette but remembered the rules and just let it hang from my mouth. "Dock my pay?"
My review officer simply waved the imaginary smoke from his face and with a lopsided ghoul grin asked. "How's the next novel going, Jack?"
I pointed a finger at him and realized I had nothing to say long after opening my big mouth.
My review officer giggled, the way little girls giggle when dancing on a grave, and summarily dismissed me from the office.
Later that night I hit a bar in the 04W to rendezvous with the Contact. I arrived early for Operation Reload and sat at the bar nursing a glass of Irish Gold. There was a woman sitting a few stools to my left. There was no TV and I have never been much for small talk with bartenders. Nothing personal. I just try not to bother anybody while they're working and my days as a doorman taught me that there's nothing worse than dealing with an inebriated customer. After all the customer is always right, or so they believe after they've had a few.
So, with my phone devoid of any built in game to whittle my attention away, I have to settle for checking out the room. Which inevitably lands my eyes on hers. Which is when she says - "Hey."
And with a shrug, I asked - "Hey?"
She slid over. Up close revealed a woman fairly younger than me but dressed professional in a black suit. Hair dark as the Chattahoochee on a moonless night, face bright as a late summer day. Her figure worn with confidence as was her smile.
She gives me a name. I give one back. She asks if I'm with someone. Pretty forward, but such is luxury of youth, so I answer honestly when I say no. I am, she laughs, he's in the bathroom. Without asking she calls over the bartender and orders me another drink.
"Oooookay. " I downed the first one and toasted her my appreciation before rising to flee to the other end of the room.
It's not like that, she assured me stopping my retreat with the faintest laying of hand upon my arm. Her boyfriend was down.
"With what?"
She spelled it out. Slow. Apparently her kicks come voyeur style. The solution was simple, me and her man, who I was promised was a very fetching young man, were going to wrestle in the manner of the Greeks. Big bear me. Apollo lithe him. Only when beauty's tamed the beast may he mount the crown victorious.
I contemplated the proposition. "Which one of us is the 'beast'?"
She nodded at me.
"And what happens if 'Beast' tames the 'Beauty'... as is often the case in the natural world? Would the crown be mine to mount?"
That was a big N-Oh-Hell No to both the former and the later.
"Likewise then." I retorted figuring that's that.
But then she sweetened the deal. She pulled out of her purse a yellow jacket the size of an old action figure. The thing sat calmly in the palm of her hand, staring menacingly at me, while it cooed out this obscene noise part buzz and part purr. Affectionately she stroked the wings of the wasp and licked the bottom of her lip in anticipation of my need. A stinger waved behind the creature like an excited puppy.
I dry gulped and told her to put that thing away before we both got kicked out.
She complied and told me that the creature was mine to take back to the privacy of my own home. Best of all, I didn't even have to go to hers to get the job done. Her man was waiting for me in the shitter and was going to film the whole incident off his phone. All I had to do was be willing to 'gay out' a little and I'd be straight on hooking up with some quality hornet venom.
"Uh-huh." I finished my drink just as the Contact arrived.
The Contact strolled over, took a look at the young business woman and told her to walk. The woman looked at me with raised eyes and the Contact told her that wasn't a request. The young lady got up calmly. Collected her translucent drink and purse stuffed with a giant yellow jacket. Before abandoning the bar for a booth, with a courteous smile she whispered: "Good luck with the book, asshole."
I ordered myself another round and one for my hero, the Contact.
The Contact told me I still had that hornet junkie vibe going and then laid a little smoke magic on me to cloak the stink. With a secrecy worthy of the highest echelons of Freemasonry, we shook hands exchanging green for green. I quickly lit up a cigarette as the bartender returned with our drinks and a warning: "You can't smoke here, man."
"It's okay." I reassured him. "I can when I'm driving, drinking or writing."
