Hot Sauce and Cigarettes

Georgie

“WHERE IS MY MASCARA ROSE.”

“IT’S RIGHT HERE.”

“THANK. YOU.”

Her hairdryer screamed about us. Various make up items spewed themselves out of bags and into the sink. A sampling of designer perfumes lined themselves up like a parade above the mirror. Rejected pieces of would-be outfits lay on the tiles like the casualties of a closeted war.

“HEY ROSE. HEY.”

She stopped the hairdryer.

“WHAT.”

“Red scarf or green?”

“RED.” And she started up again.

With scarves bundled and peacoats buttoned, we stepped out. It was a cold night, but unusually clear.

Beret Kid and his stout friend from my college English class with the black blazer and the endless stream of cigarettes met us downtown. There were awkwardly exchanged greetings, then we went down to Hemingway’s.

Hemingway’s looked very classy-yet-modern with its sophisticated oak furniture and glitzy chandeliers all about. We sat out on the patio, under a large group of emerald umbrellas.

I ordered a coke, Rose and the rest had coffee. The two of us were quiet, as Beret Kid monopolized the conversation.

“I saw this band the other night downtown. You’ve probably never heard of them. …Oh, this jacket? I got it from the props closet back in high school, I was such a good actor. I never had any starring roles but I was always the best. …I play the guitar. …I only read ee cummings’ poetry.”

Rose interjected, once, because that was the only chance she got:

“Georgie writes, don’t you, George?”

I stared down at my feet, clearing my throat. Beret Kid moved on, putting unnecessary stressing on words:

“Oh. Ha. Well, I write poetry. You should read it, it’ll change your. Life.”

I sipped my coke, staring at him like the dumbshit he was.

What? He was.

Beret Kid began questioning his reality for some reason, talking of dead philosophers and decrepit monks. His friend argued with him in the same intellectual manner. Rose and I stared at each other pitifully, unsure if pity filled our hearts for them or us.

It really is an art, such as the brain-filtering I've mentioned before, to keep yourself smiling and not punching some people in the face.

Riley

“Ugh. Kill me bro. You’re supposed to be my wingman, what’s your problem?”

He swung back into the dirtied, dark-wood booth nearest the swinging door entrance of The Dubliner.

I didn’t know. Usually I had a very easy time flirting with girls. Maybe I was losing my edge.

"I'm in a slump, Sid. I can't even come up with new D&D plots anymore, ever since I had my supervisors breathing down my back after The Crazy Guy knocked over my Tuna Fish display. I'm pretty much failing writing class..."

"Yaaaawn. I didn’t come down here to talk about something stupid like your feelings. I came here to get pissed and talk to girls. Now follow me and distract the ugly ones.”

I rolled my eyes, getting up finally and wiggling out of the booth of the generic wannabe-irish pub.

Sid danced and groomed himself over to the far end of the long bar.

Georgie

“I need to go to the restroom. Come on, George.”

As Beret Kid and His Stout Friend began discussing the very serious, mystical psychological meanings behind the fact that girls always go to the bathroom in groups, Rose dragged me up by the arm and led me out from the streetside patio and into the bar.

I tuned my ears into all the sounds around us, taking in random stranger’s faces and noting the interesting ones. I loved places where people just lived, did mundane little things and weren’t on guard for anyone but a private audience. Kaleidoscopes of bad habits and good vibes.

I smiled, realizing finally the reason I’d felt so uncomfortable back there. There was no deep meaning for me with Beret Kid and his questions from a college textbook to reality. Life itself was not meant to be drilled and interrogated and viewed with a higher-than-thou contempt, and he would never understand that.

It was full and contradictory. Noisy and irrelevant. A punch line to a joke we weren’t in on. Like everyone in this bar, in this town, in Thompsons. Like the people I worked with and the friends that I’d made here.

I thought of Abe then and felt guilty for how I’d criticized him and the "work" he'd done on my bike. I wondered where he was and if he’d taken it all well by now.

Riley

I didn’t really register The Crazy Guy as I bumped into him while following Sid. Sid didn’t either, which I guess was kind of odd. Then again, Sid always has a sort of “tunnel-vision” about him in bars.

But he caught our attention when he started talking, louder and more animated than anyone in the room. I think he was arguing with someone.

“No. You know what, no. You’ve been following me around like some dumb ninja secret agent for too long and you’re gonna talk to me…”

Glasses clinked and people coughed. Someone laughed uncomfortably in a corner booth, obviously startled. I squinted, listening and rubbing at my mustache in concentration.

“You don’t just expect to come in here and make little comments about me just cause your girlfriend dumped you for being a jerk. And that’s just your problem isn’t it? You expect too much. Your whole life is just one carefully arranged timeline, down to when you poop! And as soon as someone sits in front of you and does something you don’t expect, you just turn into an a---”

Sid caught on suddenly, “Oi. Is that Crazy Abe? I swear that’s him. Over there, look! The bag!”

I leaned back, brave enough to stare now that Sid was, too. His back was facing us. But it was unmistakably the same square-head nuisance from Thompsons that we all knew and some loved.

“You know what your problem is? You…. You earned too much. You’re entitled, aren’t ya?”

“Shoulda stopped serving Crazy Abe a long time back, eh?” I commented to the bartender.

“If you think serving root beer to a man like that is against the rules, sure. ‘E hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since he came in, and this is the only bar he shows up at. …You know this bloke? Can you go talk to him before he starts something?”

Sid’s eyes lit suddenly, “I got an idea. Play my favorite song. And I’ll give you twenty quid.”

“You know we don’t take pounds here. And I think Lady Goo-Goo-whats-her-name wouldn’t get these men calmed down even if I paid ‘em.”

“Not that song, the other one. You know.”

The barman frowned thinly as Sid waved a twenty pound bill rudely under his shark-like nose.

“Just take it. Man, come on.”

The barman rolled his oversized green eyes and snatched it from Sid, and turned towards a backroom with an impatient groan.

This wasn’t anything abnormal. Sid made crazy demands here all the time. I could never figure out why the barman always abided, but it probably had something to do with the fact that Sid’s assertive personality attracted more friends here than any of the other places in town.

I’d always been friendly, never assertive. It was why I could talk to girls, but hardly ever be seen as anything but a “big brother” to them. Ever since my playground days, that was me--the nice guy. The wingman. Observing and never participating. Always at ease, but never getting what he wanted.

I scowled over at Crazy Abe. His voice was now violently competing with the man next to him in the trench coat’s now. Trench Coat, (I named him in my head), was taller and seemed considerably more fit than Abe. He looked stern and very upstanding, his hair matched the shininess of his expensive looking shoes. His eyes were glassy, however--which meant he was intoxicated. He was pointing a black gloved finger at Abe and his jaw was contorting itself with obscenities.

Abe (on tiptoe to make himself seem taller) was flailing his arms all about. It was a typical bar argument, nothing to worry over. I rolled my eyes. Sid was probably using it as an excuse to get the bartender to play something like, “Party in the USA” again.

But then Abe raised his thumb, and firmly placed it on his forehead, flicking it off at Trench Coat in a fluid motion.

In this particular country, that was a terrible thing to do. The mega-god of all insults. Worse than pissing on his mother’s grave while giving him the middle finger. Worse than kissing his significant other and stealing his dog while setting his house on fire. It was just… a low blow.

Trench Coat knew he had to top that. It was either that, or throw a punch and get kicked out.

He poured a whole pint of Kilkenny’s on Crazy Guy’s overalls. Casual-like.

The threats of a fist fight came fast, and a whole load of gents gathered around the pair, ready to egg on or join in. I glanced over at the bar man, who seemed very vexed now.

“This better work now or all four of you blokes are banned.”

A familiar set of piano chords started up, building slow and dramatic to the vocals:

“….Just a small town girl…”

Oh dear god in heaven help us all, I thought, here go the nights at my favorite bar.

But slowly, everyone started looking around like they were being slapped awake. A woman in a booth was rolling her eyes. But everyone else seemed to be charmed.

"it goes on and on and on..."

“Come on, brother.” Sid was leading me over to where Crazy Abe and Trench Coat stood.

A few people started up at the punch-dance inducing line of "strangers". A couple got up to dance, which was weird, nobody danced in this bar. Both Crazy Abe and Trench Coat had frozen, fists clenched in midair--bewildered. It looked like Abe was even mouthing some of the words.

I shook my head in disbelief. There was no way one of Sid’s ideas worked. No wa--

“Get ready to grab his arms, mate.”

The whole bar now, screaming at the top of their lungs:

“DON’T. STOP. BE-LIEVINN.”

Both Abe and Trench Coat had ugly stretched out smiles on their faces as they both resumed trying to throw a punch in the confusion. But before anyone could get hurt, Sid was pulling Abe smoothly away by his overall straps, encouraging me to help, dragging the blinking fool out of the bar.

Abe wasn’t done yelling, “I’ll get you Wilkes! I’ll get you back! All I need is EGGSHELLS.”

“Oy! OY. Alright.” We got out of the bar. The chilly air and navy sky seemed to calm Abe and we let him go. He swayed, fumbled a bit, but recovered just fine.

“Jerk. Made my pants look shameful.” He mumbled, dusting himself off. We started leading him a little ways away from the building, down near an old record store.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“A Jerk.” He insisted, “What are you two doing out this late?”

“It’s like nine, dude.” I said impatiently, “Are you drunk?”

“I’m confused.” Abe stared.

Sid spoke: “Aw, it’s okay man, we all get like that. Let’s go. Let’s get you some food.”

“Yeah. I could use some pizza or eggro--”

“ABE.” A voice shouted.

“Trench Coat.” I whispered to Sid, and we all crept down low instinctively. We sat behind a dumpster for a very long time, until the sounds of Wilkes yelling about how “he wouldn’t tolerate that kind of insult” faded off towards the other end of the street.

“So. About that food. Where to?”

Something went off in my head that made Sid and even Abe look at me weird: “Hemingways.”

Georgie

“This is awful.”

“A disaster.”

“Okay. So… what do we do?”

“You got us on this date! Get us out!”

“You do it! You’re more assertive!”

“I have no experience with guys who wear berets and only quote ee cummings!”

I sighed,

“I could tell him my grandma died.”

“Too much.”

“… My dog?”

“…”

“My… chameleon?”

“You have got to stop.”
A stall door creaked open. Rose and I paused, glancing over and smiling at the short, blonde woman who was looking at us like we were mentally deranged.

As soon as the main door to the restroom swung closed, Rose continued:

“End this.”

I sighed shakily, “Okay.”

----

“Aw come on! This is bollocks they don’t serve no pizza! And the menu’s too hard for me to read. Let’s ditch!”

“Sid?” I blurted out into the crowd. It wasn’t a question to anyone, really. More of a question to the universe: How was Sid, Why was Sid?

There was no doubt that was him, standing there at the upscale bar next to Riley who happened to be next to (wouldn’t you know it?) Crazy Abe. Riley noticed us first, smiling his usual amiable gold-tooth grin and raising his hand. He looked as if he was going to say something, but stopped once Sid yelled,

“Ladies! Ladies! Loookit how pretty. What’s got you guys all dressed up and in a piss-heap like this?”

“We’re… on a date.” I admitted with reluctance as Sid dragged us over to his section of bar.

“With each other?”

“No. No! Two kids from my English class. A double date.”

“Oh. Well I’m not used to taking girls out to dinner so.” Sid shrugged.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked, “With…”

Crazy Abe answered that, swiveling strangely on his heels,

“A douche bagel is trying to kill me. So what happens? Oh! More Thompson’s Goons! Great!”

“You’re drunk.” Rose declared.

“No, I told you already, I’m confused. And hungry.”

“Um, you never told--”

But I interrupted, now taking note of the dark spot of mystery that was all over the bottom half of his overalls: “Oh my God! Abe, did you piss yourself?”

Rose nudged me again and Abe replied, “Don’t you have a date to get back to?”

“We’re trying to ditch it, actually.”

Riley suggested a distraction. But Rose said she wasn’t leaving without at least letting them know we were gone.

“OH!” Sid jumped up strangely, “Where they at, I’ll beat em up!”
“How exactly does that help our situation?” Rose frowned.

“It doesn’t… I just want to punch their faces.”

Abe: “Did you try the ‘my chameleon died’ trick yet?”

Rose now, “No deaths! Geez, you’re all a bunch of morbid wackos!”

My head had already turned to face the length of the room.

Oh no. It was them. Beret Kid and Fat One …whatever his name was. They were crossing over through the sliding glass doors and now headed down the hip carpet, each intently focused on the discussion they were now having over some stupid, metaphysical matter.

“Just tell ‘em to eat it, then!” Sid said finally.

But it was too simple. Idiots like these had be dealt with differently. They were from a whole other planet of pseudo-intellectual asshole. They didn’t understand “no”. They felt the need to transcend it. Heck, I’d told Beret kid “no” at least six times when he’d asked if we’d like to go to his favorite bar to hang out and look where I was now.

“Eat a sofa.” Abe then muttered, centering his purse over the stain on his overalls.

“Abe! You’re a genius!”

“Am I talking?”

Rose tried her best to usher me back from walking up to the scholarly pair, but it didn’t work. I think I could hear Riley wish “good luck!” but I couldn’t be too sure.

“Ah, there you are. Where is your friend?”

I’d already decided.

“Thomas, do you mean physically or mentally? To quote…”

Point of no return. Do or die.

“Gentleman.” I spoke. My voice shook, but I kept going anyways, “We’ve had a nice time but we’re going to leave now.”

Beret Kid paused, staring intently at me with his watery gray eyes. The chandeliers above exaggerated every blackhead, every dip of pockmarked skin. The sparse ugly hairs growing above his lip twitched with discomfort:

“Tsk. You can’t leave, we’ve just--”

I twitched, “We are leaving… and you can…”

“Eat a sofa!” I rushed the line and botched the delivery, what with all the wiry nerves bundled up inside my throat but it was okay, the phrase had hit them in the face better than a slap, and they stood--frozen, awkward, but most imperatively: silent.

Rose and I were able to get our coats and scarves with no question or contest.

That was it, the key to escape. That was the necessary thing. Absurdity, irreverence. It killed off fights and bad dates. At least it did here, in this town, right?

We made it to the entrance, all the way out into the cold night. Up the uneven cobblestones to where the car was parked.

But Sid and Riley, as well as The Crazy Guy, had somehow beat us there.

“Pizza Time!” Sid jumped, “Come on then!”

Aw well. I guess we owed it to them.