nanowrimo 2k9

Weather, like wealth, is relative. A long stint the arctic will make a resort town seem overcrowded; a rich man could feel physical pain from the anguish of slumming at Arby’s, while someone next to him could be enjoying processed meat and cheese on a processed bun after a lifetime of living in a cage and having pennies pulled from a fire thrown at him. And also feel physical pain from the anguish of slumming at Arby’s. So goes life, so mysterious.

The weather tonight was not pleasant. It was fall, and while the sun could still bring the heat, the night came earlier and earlier. The cold always followed. In the summer, the ambient heat reached a peak in the afternoon, but seemed to linger. People left their windows open and turned the tv up over the hum of fans. In the fall, the day faded quickly into the afternoon, and windows were shuttered. And then there was the rain. In the daylight, the clouds stayed fluffy, white and out of the suns reach, but the cold dragged in more, heavier, and hung dampness in fog crawling down the city streets.

Inside, the visitors were none the wiser, the doors were sealed, curtains drawn and everyone who was not working there was fast numbing under the intoxicating mixture of Gus’ piano, giant flashing screens, the lingering smell of “hand carved” meat, and also booze. The evening drew on, and the songs grew louder, and as the drunkeness grew, people seemed more reluctant to leave, and drew closer and closer to the piano. Except of course, Chuff and his allies.

They sat, stoicically drinking, still pounding PBR’s, but had also moved on to shots of Scoresby, a very very fine whiskey indeed, though unfortunately not “Irish”. Of course the bar still stocked it because half of their clientele were old homeless people who would occasionally order a chaser with their water when they were able to scrap enough money to top off their “hand carved” sandwich. They sure were delicious. Also, since the waitresses working there could keep them in line, they helped pack the place, and were generally harmless. A customer is a customer, thats what they say. It doesn’t matter if its a wino, marketing asshole, or old person, if they can afford one of the famous “hand carved” sandwiches, they were welcome.

In the distance, there was a rumbling of thunder, all but drowned by the people tightly grouped around the piano. The accoustics and liquor had collapsed into a drone, faintly shifting hums to a faint melody, the lyrics unknown, adlibbed or incomprehensible. Closest to the piano, a small circle formed arms around each others shoulders mumbling in unison, red-cheeked and gloriously indifferent. The crowd pushed closer in, and the relaxed, waving out from the end of the bar. Still, at the shore, sat the marketing assholes. They too, had gotten progressively drunker, the idea of quitting or leaving, or even getting drunker somewhere else in the bar had never crossed their mind. While they were noticibly waving, unsafe to drive and disgustingly sweaty, their conversation stayed focused, and they all stared intently at each others drinks. Buzzards, relentless drinking the blood of their last kill, with no ideals of doing anything else other than hunting and feeding. And loudly belching war stories for hours.

As the night grew on, the weather outside became more noticable, slamming doors shut and blowing hair out of place when people left; a mini deluge splattering across the doorframe. More people bundled, broke from the circle and left, the singing grew soft, Gus’ red face began to sag underneath his smiling cheeks and white beard. The songs slowed, and when the bar was just them and the winos, the barkeep rang the bell.

“Time to go folks, you know the drill!”

Someone in the back switched the lights on.

The trio stopped abruptly, all laughed warmly, and drained their drinks.
The bald man said, “Well, its been a hell of a night!”
Chuff and the haired man nodded in agreement. Their tab already closed, they stepped through the door and into the storm.

The bars leaking doors had muffled the fury of the storm quite well. The group was practically thrown into the awning, and stepped ankle deep into a puddle growing at the edge of the sidewalk. This was more impressive because the bar was on a steep hill so each man stumbled out of the puddle, drunkenly onto uneven ground. A line of helpfully predatory cabs sat out at the curb, vacant, lit-up, and idling.

Freshly soaked, but still alert, they huddled into the cab shouted out the directions out of order, and spent 20 minutes going 3 blocks. They checked into the Holiday Inn, double twins with a cot. Outside of the bar and the cab, they said nothing to each other, simply gestured humorlessly, and finally laid down silently and forced themselves to sleep.