Chapter four
As I was coming back from the men's room at the "Woodpecker" I ran into my girlfriend from high school. Her name was Linda and she was killed the day after graduation when her Super Bee car was run off the road by a drunk driver in a Ford LTD. She told me how disappointed she was at the quality of the commercials in the Super Bowl broadcast this year. "Usually, that's the best part of watching the game, but this year they really sucked the big one!" she said. She had a way of saying things that could always make me laugh. The two men with the mullet haircuts and missing front teeth playing pool underneath the Budweiser tiffany glass fluorescent lamp stopped their game and gawked at my burst of joy. The one with the most "feathered" haircut shot me a piercing stare over his brown,stained cheeks and barked "You just better not be laughing at me, ASSWIPE!" I assured him that I was not and gave a wave to Russell who knowingly popped two more beers and hurriedly delivered them to the gentlemen. As Russell and I gingerly shuffled back to the bar, the angriest of the two men stated "Well alright then." and took an over-anxious swallow of the Budweiser while suds ran down his chin and onto his shirt. His friend flashed me a "thumbs-up" and did the same chug-alug. Crisis averted. By the way, Linda was right about those Super Bowl ads. They sucked.
Maybe you should look at Russell with me. He is a mountain of a man, tall and wide, with a head of rusty hair that could be a bad toupee if it wasn't growing naturally from his scalp. The two guys playing pool could be swallowed up and disappear inside of Russell if they tangled with him, but that was not likely to happen. He was my friend, protector, bartender, but mostly he was a lover and protector of the peace. When he wasn't taking drink orders and watching out for my well being, he was a volunteer fireman for the neighboring city of Phillips Ridge. He had taken all of the training and reported on time for every meeting and emergency. He was a model volunteer fireman. He always looked shocked and embarrassed because his cheeks were red and his glass eye made such a vacant stare. He owned 2 glass eyes, one the same color as his existing eye and one with a bright green shamrock in the middle for use on St. Patrick's day. He also had a patch that he often wore over the empty socket. Louis had given in to him. It looked like an archery target. Louis loved the sick humor.
The "Woodpecker" was a typical thrown-together bar in the middle of the country. The sign was provided by the "Falls City" beer company. It was a tacky sign that was more of an advertisement than anything. Strangers thought the name of the bar was "bottles and cans" because the sign was letting you know that Falls City beer was available not only in the classic bottle, but also in convenient cans in a way that was far more conspicuous that the tiny words "Woodpecker" at the bottom. The guy who owned the place was doing the best he could, but it wasn't ever going to be anything more than what Louis referred to as a "Quonset hut of enjoyment." The tables and floors could survive a disaster and with a spray of a garden hose could become good as new. The wall behind the bar is where most of the country joints exhibit their singularity and individuality and the Pecker was no exception. They had their select liquors and and softball and bowling trophies. A giant stuffed Marlin that nobody had a story for. There was a large pickle jar containing Russell's unique cocktail mixture of Vodka, apples, spices, and carrots, slowly aging into a festering mess he liked to call, "Satan's Underpants." If you're gonna be in Arfordville Kentucky anytime soon, you should stop by and order a drink, it should be ready by then! There is a picture of me and my Doctor next to the cash register. The photo was taken about an hour after my accident in Phillips Ridge and I still had that thing in my head. The portrait in black and white of me, a white man strapped tight in a hospital gown, and a black physician in his scrubs was taken by a volunteer fireman who had stayed with me from the time he pulled me from the rubble until the nurses made him leave the hospital. That fireman never stopped taking care of me even after the day he picked me up when I was released from the "St. Charles" residential therapy center. The same place, by the way, where Louis was having his non-existant arm studied. His last name was Sanders. From that fateful day forward he was my savior and my bartender, Russell Sanders.
Maybe you should look at Russell with me. He is a mountain of a man, tall and wide, with a head of rusty hair that could be a bad toupee if it wasn't growing naturally from his scalp. The two guys playing pool could be swallowed up and disappear inside of Russell if they tangled with him, but that was not likely to happen. He was my friend, protector, bartender, but mostly he was a lover and protector of the peace. When he wasn't taking drink orders and watching out for my well being, he was a volunteer fireman for the neighboring city of Phillips Ridge. He had taken all of the training and reported on time for every meeting and emergency. He was a model volunteer fireman. He always looked shocked and embarrassed because his cheeks were red and his glass eye made such a vacant stare. He owned 2 glass eyes, one the same color as his existing eye and one with a bright green shamrock in the middle for use on St. Patrick's day. He also had a patch that he often wore over the empty socket. Louis had given in to him. It looked like an archery target. Louis loved the sick humor.
The "Woodpecker" was a typical thrown-together bar in the middle of the country. The sign was provided by the "Falls City" beer company. It was a tacky sign that was more of an advertisement than anything. Strangers thought the name of the bar was "bottles and cans" because the sign was letting you know that Falls City beer was available not only in the classic bottle, but also in convenient cans in a way that was far more conspicuous that the tiny words "Woodpecker" at the bottom. The guy who owned the place was doing the best he could, but it wasn't ever going to be anything more than what Louis referred to as a "Quonset hut of enjoyment." The tables and floors could survive a disaster and with a spray of a garden hose could become good as new. The wall behind the bar is where most of the country joints exhibit their singularity and individuality and the Pecker was no exception. They had their select liquors and and softball and bowling trophies. A giant stuffed Marlin that nobody had a story for. There was a large pickle jar containing Russell's unique cocktail mixture of Vodka, apples, spices, and carrots, slowly aging into a festering mess he liked to call, "Satan's Underpants." If you're gonna be in Arfordville Kentucky anytime soon, you should stop by and order a drink, it should be ready by then! There is a picture of me and my Doctor next to the cash register. The photo was taken about an hour after my accident in Phillips Ridge and I still had that thing in my head. The portrait in black and white of me, a white man strapped tight in a hospital gown, and a black physician in his scrubs was taken by a volunteer fireman who had stayed with me from the time he pulled me from the rubble until the nurses made him leave the hospital. That fireman never stopped taking care of me even after the day he picked me up when I was released from the "St. Charles" residential therapy center. The same place, by the way, where Louis was having his non-existant arm studied. His last name was Sanders. From that fateful day forward he was my savior and my bartender, Russell Sanders.
1 Comments:
I think about what I would do if I lost an eye.
I would wear a neon green eyepatch. Because it's disgusting/awesome.
I really like your book. I really do. I want to write one myself, but then I always start and then go "This is so stupid" and stop.
By LufaMouse, at 6:52 PM
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