Excerpt (continued):
It was some
crazy dream. I was bouncing around
in a rowboat in the middle of a stormy sea.
My head was caught in a vise, which was slowly being tightened by some
unseen hand, and a bright floodlight was burning holes in my eyelids. In the background, somewhere, Krupa and Rich were beating out
their hot new rendition of Dueling Base Drums.
I fought
opening my eyes as long as possible, but the rocking of the boat was getting to
me and it felt like I was about to heave all over myself.
Even after prying the lids open it took a moment or two for me to realize
that this wasn't my bed. Across the
room an open door revealed a tub with a pink shower curtain that was totally
foreign to me, but the expression any port in a storm made a bunch of sense
right about then, so I quickly staggered toward it, making my way to the toilet
just in the nick of time. It turned
out that the storm I'd been dreaming about was raging inside of me fighting to
get out, and I was all for giving up the battle, graciously surrendering the
residue of whatever rotgut I had sucked down in my fall from the wagon the night
before.
As I flushed
the commode for the third time I caught a glimpse of a weather beaten red eyed
bum watching me from the mirror over the sink.
I leaned in for a closer look and the bum glared back rubbing his hand
over the steel and copper bristles covering his chin, pulling down his cheeks so
I could search deeper into those bloodshot eyes and figure out which one looked
more like O'Hare International; on a Delta map.
Calling it a
toss-up, I splashed some icy water into them and ran a comb through this thick
mat of sand and gravel cowlicks of mine that always have that slept-in look
until a morning shower beats them into submission.
No telling
how long it had been since I'd shaved. My
mustache was sweeping downward, threatening a hostile take-over of the mouth,
which tasted like a cross between a garbage dump and a compost heap.
I still had
no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there, but at this point that was a rather
low priority problem. One sniff of
my armpits told me I was in serious need of a shower, and the fresh guest towels
hanging on the rack made the temptation irresistible in my weakened state.
After about
fifteen minutes of letting the cool water loosen the vise on my throbbing head,
the events of the night before began coming back to me: .
"Tell me about it." I
sure did dump on that sweet young thing. She'll
think twice before using that expression again.
I guess I tend to take people a bit too literally when I'm three sheets
to the wind.
I tilted
back my head and let the shower hit me in the face.
Lathering up all over I tried to recall what happened next.
It was fuzzy but gradually it was all coming back:
"So- you from around here?"
Rinsing off
the suds I turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub to the tantalizing
smell of bacon wafting in from another world someplace, and I knew it had to be
showtime- time to find out where it was I was, and how it was I was here.
While drying
off I popped open the medicine chest and helped myself to the mouthwash.
Next I had a go at her deodorant which I hoped, being made for a woman,
would be strong enough for a man who's pores must still reek from last night's
poison. It was about then that I
spotted the little orange razor and decided to take the refurbishment one step
further, which for me was a monumental concession, a giant step- as much a
compromise as going into that bar. Having
been raised by a stepfather who was an Italian barber from the old country, I've
always been a purist when it comes to shaving.
Dad taught me to use a straight razor even before I had anything to
shave, and for more than thirty years I've figured any other way was cheating.
But that "any port" rule still applied, so I lathered up and
did what I had to do.
The
necessities thus facilitated, I stepped back into my trousers and followed my
nose out past the bedroom and through the doorway to the living room where it
sounded like Krupa and Rich were
still going at it.
It was a
small room with a modern style beige couch and chair surrounded by two chrome
and glass tables and lamps, all of which, I was to later learn, were delivered
the week before from "Jasper Rents".
The turntable was on the floor in the corner and the two big
strategically placed woofers were still beating out what the album jacket
identified as Sandy Nelson's Drumming Round The World.
"Sorry
Sandy," I muttered, cueing up the needle and pushing the off-button.
The sizzling
in the background was a lot louder now, sounding, to my super-sensitive,
hung-over hearing, like an electrical storm over Niagara Falls.
I walked across the room and through the doorway at the other end where I
found my hostess doing battle with some shriveling strips of bacon.
She reached out to turn one over, and then jumped back out of range,
while they all registered their protests by spitting at her from the iron
fortress that entrapped them.
I was able
to witness this entire melee from the doorway- the kitchen being no more than
eight by eight, with barely enough room for the little maple table and three
chairs on the wall to my left, alongside the fridge which was across from the
sink on my right. The stove was at
the far end of the room, so until now she'd had her back to me and didn't seem
to know I was there.
"Hi,
who's winning," I asked, trying to be cute.
"They
do all the time," answered she, in a husky voice with just the slightest of
drawls and looking up at me in a way that gave cuteness a new meaning.
"Guess ah always get the pan too hot."
I stood
there and smiled like an idiot, knowing I didn't stand a chance of out-cuting
her in my enfeebled state.
Sensing my momentary reticence, she covered for me nicely by smiling and saying, ever so gently and with a wave of her turning fork, "Hi, ah'm Julie. Remember me?"
[End of Excerpt]
