Discover more from Chronicles of a Barfly
After roof recon duty, you treat yourself to a late brunch date, consisting of watered-down bottomless mimosas and the pro-bono durability test of the plexiglass plate that was protecting a fire extinguisher, just a few moments ago.
The crimson cylinder mimics the shade of droplets leaving your forehead.
An unorthodox method perhaps, but innovation requires creativity that is bound by no social constructs or conventional rationale.
Apparently, foreheads can cry too.
You pocket the antacids but stand in line to pay for eleven bottles of sleeping pills.
You know. In case ten won’t cut it.
Always be prepared, you were told.
Measure twice, cut once.
Anything worth doing, isn’t. Really.
A citrusy belch…
…the omen of impending acid indigestion. As of late, so intense the boiling pain drops you to your knees.
Enough to keep you from completing even the most trivial of tasks.
Like moving, or thinking.
You eat antacids like they were valium, and eat valium like it’s your words. The pain only ever subsides long enough to allow you to sniff relief, but never taste it.
The only taste in your mouth is defeat and chalky barbituates, respectfully.
Enough only for a widowed breath of benign indignation, it begins the process over, to be completed in full. In perpetuity.
Still, this is nothing, you think.
This is a comped all-day spa treatment at the Waldorf in comparison to hearing Peter Gabriel.
Seems to really get inflamed when you breathe.
Working on that.
Progress, not perfection, right.
Remind yourself to be thankful for the good things in life like rainbows and donkey shows.
A baby’s laugh, her smile and sedatives so strong they can put a Clydesdale’s dick in the dirt.
The sound of the rain and I forgive you.
Things like kittens and ketamine.
All the core staples of society that can often be underappreciated but are oh so crucial.
Freshly brewed coffee on brisk winter mornings. Grilled cheese and tomato soup when you’re not feeling well. Easy on the butter, the ticket said, although it tasted more like PAM. Touché.
Be thankful for the things we all take for granted. Hidden gems like Asphyxia and aquariums. Truth and pancakes. Disposable diapers and divorce attorneys.
Tacos and titties.
The sky is the limit.
Reaffirm appreciation for the things you have.
This part doesn’t take long, thankfully. Trimming the fat daily.
A woman appears, a child in hand. Puzzled expressions on both parties, as we exchange silent judgment of one another. This woman, she says something about looking for the delivery driver in possession of her sick husband’s dinner.
The GPS, she says, shows that he’s on property already.
You don’t say.
She asks if you’ve seen anyone.
Haven’t seen him for a long time, princess. Cant help you.
You tell her you have indeed, not seen anyone.
She continues, but you can’t quite hear her, the voice is slowly engulfed by the calm white as you paint your rendition of the congested matriarch who is about to get some bad news. You imagine walking in the maze of apartments that haven’t been updated since the ’70s but have quadrupled in price. You ignore the numbers on the doors but admire all the matching decorations of peeling paint.
Feeling solidarity in being neglected is totally a thing.
Here in full view of the woman and her kiddo, Yankey doodle dipshit himself pictures the unfortunate father figure with the tummy ache, soon to be bedridden AND let down.
You wonder what flavor of ailment is on the menu for a stuffy-nosed daddy.
A sudden case of hay fever pasta or freshly prepared malaria. The common-cold house special or Typhoid fever. The smell of her perfume or anthrax du jour.
All the same to you now.
The woman’s monologue has the volume raised from three to five but you catch only pieces of her communique, something along the lines of tomato soup or cheat on me.
Her broken sentences and muffled babble translate in your mind to a recommendation for the adjoining properties rooftop, due to the lackadaisical security on weekdays and a long enough platform to gather the speed required to clear the safety net. You’re pretty sure she says it’s best to do some light stretching beforehand, due to the gap being nearly ten feet.
12.4 ft to be exact. All-state track and field, buttercup.
But you don’t correct her.
How could she know that the particular terrace attached to the target is under routine maintenance and won’t be accessible until Thursday. The other honeymoon suite is occupied by a French couple who used stolen credit cards to rack up an impressive room service bill. Excellent taste in wine overall, but you weren’t a fan of the Bordeaux that costs more than your education. Their native palettes knew their cheeses for sure, but you wish he was a 34 long instead of Mini-Me. You definitely wish their timing was a little better.
Cest’ la vie.
Fortunately, the eastside Presidential suite neighboring the Honeymoon suite shares a common center deck. But only when the pool is covered over and a retracting platform extends over top, creating a dance floor of sorts. Or a landing pad. Soon to be a launchpad.
This location is also preferable because of tailwind implications and aesthetics offering better poetic justice.
The direction facing the sunset and her house.
The human flytrap buzzing of a billion fluorescent firefights at your back and under your feet.
Facing the dark red foe in the distance, its silhouette shaped like a mountain range. Millions of broken homes are watching its back from the other side.
Practically weightless already.
The finish line is just beyond eyes view.
Halfway to release and the runways are wide open. Free at last.
Almost a winner.
…drift back to Captain tucked away beneath a heavy down blanket.
Fortified behind a dripping steam machine that coughs breath of eucalyptus and infidelity in bouts of feeble mist.
The fever-stricken Colonel is laid beside a makeshift bedpan which was most likely the child’s old potty training receptacle.
Faded cartoon chickens without pants are barely visible, but you clearly see they are all wearing nicer watches than you.
If you picture it just right.
If you hold your breath right to the brink of the calm fuzzy blackness, this is when you can see it clear as day.
Your mysterious host himself, Admiral pathogen farm, is gonna need a cooler towel after the market closes and he is informed of his portfolio taking a hit in the Grilled cheese with light butter that tasted like PAM and Tomato soup market.
You tell the woman he went that way.
Sirens are approaching from a distance.
Head in the game.
While exiting the property through the alleyway, hand all your cash to the man with one shoe but great cheekbones.
I see you.
You won’t be needing the cash where you’re going.
Not tonight. Tonight is date night.
Just you and lady luck.
And you still need to press your shirt.