Tonight I Think I'm Gonna Go Downtown
by Bobby Harnett
Enough mewling. I’ll empty this wallet with lightning speed. In the best bar in the world. Where nobody knows me and I’m ignored from the moment I walk in by everyone except the members of staff I’ll have no choice but to engage. If I’m lucky enough I’ll feel unwelcome as if all I’m doing is kicking sand in your eyes. They’ll check the lightbulb over me but it’s working fine and if they don’t give me something to bitch about I’ll bitch about just that.
Service with a smile. Perfect. Inanity via telegraph.
“What are you smiling for?”
“Here you go sir, that’ll be 4.50.”
“Thanks Happy Hour. And don’t call me ‘sir’. It makes you look subservient... or subordinate... One of those. Actually, call me ‘Your Highness’.”
A nook, my drink and the crossword puzzle. Suddenly my mood shifts from one of pithy, aggressive boredom to one of boring, born-to-be-bored boredom. I’ve filled too many squares with names of people whose necks I’d like to stand on to finish the crossword so I fire up (oh, the excitement) the jukebox. Crap crap crap crap crap crep crecp ccrq[p cr p crqp crap crap crsap crapsc rsapdka crqapo crwp crap crap crqp ceaqp cea;p crwp crvp crvap cap crpc vrlwq and finally some decent stuff.
The place starts to fill up. Loud insecure types laughing more and more at less and less. Women and men trying to act young by scoring boys and girls trying to act old. That lad I hate. Cool people. Happy Hour is, in both or more respects, long gone. I’m going to get fucked-up-drunk. After all I don’t have to work tomorrow. I play Spiderman at kids parties.
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