Enjoying a cold beer or two last night at the Holiday Club was all I had in mind when I jumped on the red line, but I should have known better when I found myself seated across from the Moirae. I tried not to look at them or get their attention, but I just couldn’t help myself. So, I casually looked at the reflection on the window next to me and checked out the one wearing the wool cap. I swear I saw her smile at me, so I turned my head and looked right at her. Unfortunately, the other two looked at me and rolled their eyes, while the wool cap fan simply snickered and looked away. Shit. Not exactly a confidence builder.
They got off at Wilson, going to scare the kids at Truman I suppose. I stayed on, closed my eyes and thought about more immediate concerns, like, was the Government behind Old Style changing their brewing process, and the show I watched the other night about penguins living in Antarctica. After watching 30 or 40 minutes of it, I was convinced that’s how the worst of us are re-incarnated, over and over.
Anyway, I jumped off at Sheridan, picked up some breath mints downstairs and headed over to the Holiday, with a rejuvenated spirit. It was crowded for a weeknight, and I thought about heading down the street to the Wrigleyville North Bar to check out the redhead bartender, but something told me to stay. Within a minute or two, I spotted some friends at the bar, said sup, and ordered a beer and chips. Within an hour of general bullshitting, I noticed that I had already had four beers. Well now, I guess tonight might be special. Damn the Fates and their stuck-up attitude.
So, now it’s two hours into the Thursday Night Edition of “Yeah, it could always be worse, I could be Keanu Reeves Agent” and I find myself now seven beers into it and I’m talking to Marty’s cousin’s best friend, who happens to be so hideous, that she makes Sarah Jessica Parker look like a super model (in fact, the bartender whispered to me that if she were his dog, he’d shave her ass and make her walk backwards), and thinking that I should slow down and eat something, but Marty and his brother were hell-bent on throwing up tonight and the best thing I could do is slip away to the other end of the bar and hide behind a fatty for an hour or so.
Before I excused myself, I took a big swig of Jerry’s Manhattan and swished it around my mouth to get rid of the Funyun breath that failed to keep the ugly away. Then, I hit the men’s room, slid by the crew, made my way over to the other end of the bar, and ordered a Sloppy Joe and coffee. Within thirty seconds of receiving my sandwich, about ¾ of it was in my mouth, the other ¼ was on my shirt and I found myself smiling like a fool, humming “Monkey Gone To Heaven”, and thinking that Marty’s cousin’s best friend looks like Abe Lincoln, with better hair, from over here. And no, I wouldn’t fuck Abe Lincoln either.