Back in the High Life
It was two-thirty in the afternoon and the bar was empty besides the pitcher and we three. This was an amazing spectacle for a college town like we had on our hands here in WVA. Things were looking abysmal.
We were licking our wounds and pouring Yuengling's Lager into the cuts while Edwards was racking another round at the billiards table. He turned toward our figures at the circular table and laughed, "Fairly uneventful there Dirty."
"Give it time. Don't you follow sports? Big game today," he burped while emptying the remaining half-inch of draft into his mug and smiling to the bar for another round.
"Dirt, the game isn't until Saturday and today is," it took me a few minutes to compute the numbers and carry the one, "Friday."
"Shit, that shows exactly what the fuck you know, greasy." He tipped the short waitress with a dollar and a pat on the ass. "Today is Saturday. What sort of wild bender have you boys been on without me?"
It made no sense to either Edwards or myself. I grabbed a pool cue and moved around to start my break of the table. Edwards looked at me from under the light of a few well placed beer marketing signs proudly expounding the wonders of mass produced and under concentrated American beer. Neither one of us understood the lethality of the missing day but Dirt was not one to argue with at this stage in the game. It was the fourth quarter and we were inside the Red Zone with seconds ticking by on the game clock. It was no time to call for special teams to save us from ourselves. We had only to put our faith in the beauty of our offensive precision.
"Alright," I pulled from the back of my mind the rough sketch of a plan. "So, if it is Saturday like Dirt says. That can only mean that we are in the center of the universe in about two hours time. And, we are ill prepared to handle such nonsense. Do you catch my meaning, Edwards?"
"Loud and clear." He eyed up the next shot against the sounds of The Boss preaching to the choir about those Badlands. "We need to put on our pretty faces, Harley. And I mean urgently need to put them on quickly."
Pitchers flowed and ample trips to the men's room powdered our noses and emotions as the time for the Great Exodus drew nearer. With a sudden force, while we were working on round three or four, the door to the Wedgie Stand piled open and a swarm of crazed and rabid Mountaineer fans crowded all available space. Young girls with football jerseys tied under their breasts and short skirts tantalizing were engulfed by drunken guys with their hats reversed in direction and swollen biceps. There was no escaping as the crowd pulled in closer to the billiards table.
Edwards and I made quick work of the newcomers by playing on the fear that we were both fully blasted on psychedelics. This, however, was not far from the truth for any of we three. We had magically lost a day and were in no mood to let that twenty-four hour period go without being avenged. A couple girls and their fellows pulled up chairs to our table to discuss the numbers from the game and we hid our buffoonery in a mix of slanted compliments and bought rounds. Oh, Lord, get us safely out of this mad house and all that entails and we'll gladly buy a lap dance for you too.