One Day At The Watering Hole

by Lew Sethics

    “Sometimes I have a hard time dealing with things that I have a hard time dealing with” I confided to my new friend, who thereby began REMming the room, pretending to look for an exit.
    “Get lost” she said to nobody in particular, I think, and took a slug of Old Bushmills.
    “Get lost” I agreed, watching the bartender pour her another generous double, mentally calculating the tos and fros of closing time divided by cash on hand, all being trumped by saturday night.
    I threw the bartender a twenty and motioned keep ‘em comin’.
    She cast a woozy eye in my direction and conjectured upon my ancestry most vividly, and at length, and no doubt the word “maggot” has some kinder significance in her pidgin American than in my own loftier North Coast croon, but she didn’t repeat herself once and we were both laughing by the time she was done.  Well, I was.
     ”If I was all that, d’you think I’d be here?” I quipped, perusing the clientele, not lost to the ambience shift my presence was quantuming in the very canyons of their mind.
    Her dumbfounded expression confounded me, as the unbounded music surrounded me.  My impounded vehicle grounded me, but it sounded like she was fond of me. 
    My confoundment’s aboundment resounded abundant, my purpose precocious prevailing prevented , my being, by not BEING my being, was not being MY being, therefore, who was, or is, (am?), I?
    “I don’t understand what you typed up there” she said, alluding to the previous paragraph, I venture.
    “But I will tell you this” she continued.
    And fell unconcious to the floor.

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http://www.triond.com/users/LewSethics

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