Chapter 2: I'm Waiting for the Man
26 dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington,, 125
Feelin' sick and dirty
More dead than alive
The address I gave them was a dive bar called Dive Bar. I'm serious. I guess things on Ganymede have simply evolved past irony or self-deprecating humor into outright description. It was a shit hole. From the alleyway outside you could smell the place, something like rotten mayonnaise and dehydrated urine. I got a few gigs there thanks to the bartender who, I eventually discovered, was also the bar's "owner." He lived in a flat upstairs and basically drank down any potential profits he made. He allowed me to play there a few nights cause he could save on his energy bill by not having to turn the radio on or something. It was a real shit hole.
One night he offered me a few shots after I played some song he lost his virginity to like 50 years ago, but I declined and told him I'm only 18 years old. I guess he was drunk but probably not, cause he got pretty pissed and told me to leave and never come back. Probably due to me not actually being a customer, but meh. Since when do root beers not count on the tab?
So this all pretty much means that in order to actually meet my Bebopian in this bar I'd have to go "incognito." Therefore, sunglasses all the way, even at a pitch black 9 pm. Totally inconspicuous, of course, but I knew quite well that if there would actually be anyone in this place at all, they'd be blind dumb drunk anyway. So fuck it. I walked in at quarter to 9 and sat in a corner booth. A waitress (I didn't remember them having waitresses) asked if I wanted anything. She actually said "What'll it be?" in one long syllable. "Nothin."
"Gah, whatever kid. You better tip me anyways." I smiled and she walked to the bar and ordered herself a gin and tonic. Dive Bar.
A few minutes later I heard a garbage can collapse outside, signifying the arrival of a bar-hopper or some sort of already intoxicated street urchin. He gently banged his forehead on the entranceway as he came in, but he didn't' say anything or even wince in pain. He just made a beeline for an empty bar stool. He said a few drink names and soon he was downing them. I waited, and just stared. This guy was freakishly tall with the most outrageous big hair. Like the standard 1970's Croatian basketball player. And he was as skinny as he was drunk. What the hell was I doing here? I closed my eyes and leaned back on the ripped cushions that were tearing my body to shreds. I leaned back further...
I woke up at about 2 am. Mr. Bartender, still clearly unaware of my true identity, belched out "Last call," or something to that affect.. I had fallen asleep. Wearing sunglasses at night is not cool, it does not help out in a disguise, it just makes you fall asleep more easily. Go figure. In the blink of my sunken eye the bartender was on me.
"You'd better get your buddy out of here. I'm closin' the hell up." He was either screaming or whispering, I don't think he was sure of which tone commit to.
"Um..." Could I use my natural voice with this guy? Would he remember me? Would he take me by the throat in his drunken daze and launch me head first into hundreds of bottles of alcohol? Would he then light a cigar and toss his Zippo at me, igniting the entire bar and ending my life in a blaze of glory? Probably not.
"Um, I don't know that guy. Sorry." I didn't even use an accent. "Doesn't matter to me. You two are the only ones here," Suddenly he pulled a pocket blade from his bartending apron sort of contraption. "Just do it, kid."
"Fuck, whatever." I didn't need to get cut by this wasted asshole at 2 am on a Monday morning in a smelly bar with gum sticking to my shoe. And in a rather uncomfortable booth nonetheless. I slowly rose from my seat and took some baby steps toward a slender blue heap of clothing passed out on the floor. With green hair. "Green hair?"
26 dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington,, 125
Feelin' sick and dirty
More dead than alive
The address I gave them was a dive bar called Dive Bar. I'm serious. I guess things on Ganymede have simply evolved past irony or self-deprecating humor into outright description. It was a shit hole. From the alleyway outside you could smell the place, something like rotten mayonnaise and dehydrated urine. I got a few gigs there thanks to the bartender who, I eventually discovered, was also the bar's "owner." He lived in a flat upstairs and basically drank down any potential profits he made. He allowed me to play there a few nights cause he could save on his energy bill by not having to turn the radio on or something. It was a real shit hole.
One night he offered me a few shots after I played some song he lost his virginity to like 50 years ago, but I declined and told him I'm only 18 years old. I guess he was drunk but probably not, cause he got pretty pissed and told me to leave and never come back. Probably due to me not actually being a customer, but meh. Since when do root beers not count on the tab?
So this all pretty much means that in order to actually meet my Bebopian in this bar I'd have to go "incognito." Therefore, sunglasses all the way, even at a pitch black 9 pm. Totally inconspicuous, of course, but I knew quite well that if there would actually be anyone in this place at all, they'd be blind dumb drunk anyway. So fuck it. I walked in at quarter to 9 and sat in a corner booth. A waitress (I didn't remember them having waitresses) asked if I wanted anything. She actually said "What'll it be?" in one long syllable. "Nothin."
"Gah, whatever kid. You better tip me anyways." I smiled and she walked to the bar and ordered herself a gin and tonic. Dive Bar.
A few minutes later I heard a garbage can collapse outside, signifying the arrival of a bar-hopper or some sort of already intoxicated street urchin. He gently banged his forehead on the entranceway as he came in, but he didn't' say anything or even wince in pain. He just made a beeline for an empty bar stool. He said a few drink names and soon he was downing them. I waited, and just stared. This guy was freakishly tall with the most outrageous big hair. Like the standard 1970's Croatian basketball player. And he was as skinny as he was drunk. What the hell was I doing here? I closed my eyes and leaned back on the ripped cushions that were tearing my body to shreds. I leaned back further...
I woke up at about 2 am. Mr. Bartender, still clearly unaware of my true identity, belched out "Last call," or something to that affect.. I had fallen asleep. Wearing sunglasses at night is not cool, it does not help out in a disguise, it just makes you fall asleep more easily. Go figure. In the blink of my sunken eye the bartender was on me.
"You'd better get your buddy out of here. I'm closin' the hell up." He was either screaming or whispering, I don't think he was sure of which tone commit to.
"Um..." Could I use my natural voice with this guy? Would he remember me? Would he take me by the throat in his drunken daze and launch me head first into hundreds of bottles of alcohol? Would he then light a cigar and toss his Zippo at me, igniting the entire bar and ending my life in a blaze of glory? Probably not.
"Um, I don't know that guy. Sorry." I didn't even use an accent. "Doesn't matter to me. You two are the only ones here," Suddenly he pulled a pocket blade from his bartending apron sort of contraption. "Just do it, kid."
"Fuck, whatever." I didn't need to get cut by this wasted asshole at 2 am on a Monday morning in a smelly bar with gum sticking to my shoe. And in a rather uncomfortable booth nonetheless. I slowly rose from my seat and took some baby steps toward a slender blue heap of clothing passed out on the floor. With green hair. "Green hair?"
