First Friday in April, 10:00 PM. Sticky Fingers Blue Club.
Underneath the neon glare of a fading sign stands a dingy dive bar on the corner of Central Avenue and 13th Street.
By day, a well-known BBQ establishment famous for its ribs.
By night, a raucous blues club famous for its live music, where the clinking of glasses and the cracking of colliding pool balls can be heard over the wailing singers and growling guitars.
"My baby did leave me..." The singer picked up his harmonica and blew five short notes in succession.
"It was a long a time ago..."
[More harmonica]
"But tonight, I will grab my beer..."
[Again]
"And drink away the sorrow..."
"I got them blues... LAWD, I got those blues..."
And then the band launched into 5 minute long jam session.
Towards the rear, halfway to the restroom, beneath a dust-covered moose head, a group of strange-looking males gathered around a sticky table. Their lower backs pressed against the torn leather booth for support, while their hunched upper backs leaned in close to better see and hear each other over the background music and dim light.
- A gumball machine, A hulk, A Yeti, a lollipop, and a raccoon.
These men comprise 5/6ths of the regular staff at Delta City Central Park (or affectionately known as "The Park"). Today they celebrate the end of a hard yet productive week. Already been there for 2 hours, the effects of cumulative alcohol consumption were becoming quite apparent, as they engaged in logorrheic banter- talking about everything and nothing in particular. All of them save Skips, who volunteered to be designated driver, had a beer or some other alcoholic beverage in front of them.
Midway through the endless conversation, the gumball machine waived down a passing waitress...
"You guys want shots?"
"Sure boss, so long as you're paying..."
"Well technically, I am not paying; the company is, but whatever..."
"Miss, charge five shots of Jameson to my tab please, and another pitcher of Yuengling."
"Y'got it chief!"
"Wow, Benson! You are so generous."
Benson sighed, "I wish Mordecai was here, I'm sure he would be enjoying this. It's not like him, passing up on free alcohol."
"Rigby?"
"Yes?" Rigby's ears perked up as he acknowledged Benson's question.
"You saw him last... What did he say to you? Why couldn't he make it."
Rigby replied in a sarcastic tone: "He was busy... Busy moping and crying about Margaret or something. I went over to tell him to stop acting like a pussy and join us for drinks. Of course, he refused, told me to piss off, and punched my arm."
Pops sat up and said, "Sounds like he's quite depressed. You should have stayed behind to comfort him in his hour of need."
"Screw that! I'm done babysitting a pouting Mordecai" replied Rigby.
"Besides, Mordecai always gets like that when she doesn't call back right away."
Skips interjected, "It's about the Gala right? Lemme guess... She declined."
"No, she didn't; she just wanted to check with her boss first."
"And when did they have this conversation?" inquired Skips.
"Monday... She told him she'd get back as soon as she got her schedule in."
Skips let out a sigh while Fives spoke for him, "If a girl takes that long to respond, the answer is no. If she said yes initially, it's because she wanted to be polite, not because she actually wanted to go out with him."
"Poor Mordecai," said Skips, while Fives nodded in agreement.
Muscleman scoffed, "What a loser! He needs to grow a pair and hang out with his bro's. BRO'S BEFORE HO'S! WOOOH! AMIRITE?"
"Shut up Muscleman," said Rigby, "Or, do you want me to remind you about how you acted after you and Starla broke up?"
Muscleman let out a humph, and then silence.
"Anyways," Rigby continued, "I hear what you are saying, but she was all over him at the cafe. I think if she didn't want to go, she'd tell him. I guess that her boss was sick or something, so she couldn't request the time off yet."
"Hey boys", Benson interjected while pointing to the rapidly approaching lady holding a black plastic tray. "Our shots are here."
Back at the Park House, an hour earlier.
The lonely blue jay sat on the couch staring blankly into the TV, looking but not watching.
Instead, his mind was racing as he thought about all the possibilities:
- Perhaps, Muscleman and Rigby are right.
- Perhaps Margaret isn't into me.
- Perhaps I am stuck in the dreaded friend zone.
- Maybe I'm just not good enough. Maybe cuz I can't fly, or I work at the park, or I don't have raging pecs like Crusher...
The last thought burned intensely into his brain and hurt the most. Maybe he misread the social cues and was wasting time barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps he should not have placed CJ in the friend zone, after all.
Beside him on the couch, occupying Rigby's usual spot, sat his phone, set to vibrate should a text or call arrive. Unfortunately, nothing came. After the clock struck 9:30 PM, he threw his phone into the trash and sulked up the stairs to his bed, and went to sleep. After a week without a response from her, he assumed it was over.
Shortly thereafter, his phone rang.
Back to the bar
Benson stood up, as the shots made their way to the table, waiting for everyone to be served, before clearing his throat, and exclaiming:
"Alright, people, listen up! I'd like to dedicate this toast to a certain member of our park family, who isn't with us tonight..."
"To Mordecai!" said Benson.
"To Mordecai!" they responded in unison.
Then at different times, they pitched back the shots, slamming their glasses on the table to indicate completion followed by a hearty sip of beer or water to soothe their puckered lips and whisky-parched throats.
Rigby passed his beer over to Muscleman, saying "Hold my beer, while I take a piss."
"Sure thing, bro!"
"Oh, and please don't prank it..."
"Me, never." Muscleman let out a devilish grin. Once he saw Rigby walking away towards the men's room, he opened a salt shaker and poured its contents into Rigby's beer.
In the Bathroom
Rigby stood in front of the urinal, admiring the graffiti on the wall and wafting in the familiar stench of stale beer and urine.
"Ah, what a stereotypical dive bar restroom," he said to himself, with a smile. Holding his penis in his right hand, he began to urinate, taking care to aim squarely at the mint-scented disk in the triangular plastic basket as it bobbed like a cork, floating in a sea of yellow.
Mid-stream, his mind began to wander. "I wonder what Ol' Mordo is up to?"
Without letting go of his penis, and while still urinating, Rigby, the true effortless multi-tasker he was, pulled out his cell phone with his left hand and proceeded to dial his best friend. Unfortunately, no one was there to answer the call.
"Shucks... voicemail... let's text him instead."
Still urinating and still not letting go of his penis, he opened up the text messages and began scrolling using only his left hand.
"Damn, I must have drank a lot of beer," he chuckled, knowing that he was still urinating.
He continued his scrolling until a particular one caught his eye.
Reading that message put him in a state of shock and distraction so great that he became unaware of how far his aim drifted from its original location. Instead of hitting the urinal, he was now pissing all over his feet.
" [Margaret Smith]: Rigby, whats up w Mordo? Tried calling but he wont pick up. Hope hes not mad w me"
" [Margaret Smith]: Anyway plz tell him im going 2 the Gala. Sorry took forever 2 get back. Manager was out of town. C U in 2 weeks bye"
While still peeing on himself, Rigby responded: "Awesome. Prolly got moody & turned his phone off. dont worry bout it."
"Right now, we r at the bar. When I get home Ill be sure 2 tell him good news. "
"And send..." He smiled briefly before looking down at his urine-soaked feet.
"GOD DAMNIT MORDECAI!" [shamelessly shifting blame to his absent friend].
"If you were here" [awkwardly lifting his leg to the sink in a feeble attempt to rinse the urine off his foot], "and didn't turn your goddamn phone off, I wouldn't have to take messages on your behalf... And I wouldn't have had a stupid accident, either."
Emerging from the bathroom, a urine-scented Rigby walked towards his friends.
"Bro, what kept you so long? We already finished an entire pitcher of beer waiting for your ass! Did you jerk one off or take a dump or something?" exclaimed Muscleman, "oh and by the way, I left your beer right here exactly as you left it."
"No," replied Rigby as he got closer.
Rigby assumed his spot at the table, while the others backed away from him.
"Dude, you smell like piss," exclaimed Hi-Five Ghost, catching a whiff of raccoon urine.
"Well, umm, I had a text message to reply to," responded Rigby sheepishly.
"If only he showed the same dedication to his work as he does towards his phone," said Benson, while the table erupted in laughter.
"STOP TALKING!" Rigby screamed.
Rigby took a sip of his "seasoned" beer and if by reflex, promptly sprayed it out of his mouth, soaking his friends.
"GODDAMMIT, MUSCLEMAN, YOU PRANKED ME!"
The laughter continued, this time even stronger despite everyone wiping the beer off their clothes and faces.
Once the laughter died down, Muscleman approached a red-faced and now thoroughly embarrassed Rigby. By then, the spilled beer on his shirt smelled strong enough to mask the musky stench of raccoon urine to the point where it no longer bothered him to get close.
"Hey Rigs, wanna make a bet?"
"What for?"
"The Gala, Bro!"
"OK"
"I bet you $50 bucks Margaret says no to Mordecai."
Rigby already knew the answer and responded to the wager with confidence, "Well $100, say's he does!"
"Whoa somebody's getting cocky. Yo know who also gets cocky? MY MOM! Anyway, how's about another $50 says they just go as friends?"
"Well, another $50 says they make out!"
"Fair enough, Rigby, since you are so confident in your friend, how about this? $300 All or nothing says he get's laid! Do we have ourselves a deal!?"
"You're damn right we do!"
"Thanks for the $300, loser!"
"Go to hell."
1 AM. Bar is closed. Skips drives everyone home.
Rigby rans upstairs to find his friend sound asleep, unable to be roused. From the depths of his despair, Mordecai wove himself into an alternative reality to cope with what seems to be Margaret's rejection. Too busy dreaming about his happy imaginary date with Margaret, he could not acknowledge Rigby's joyous acclamation that she said yes to the real one.
"I guess I'll have to talk to him in the morning, then," Rigby resigned to himself as he curled himself up onto his trampoline and pulled the claw-torn blanket over his head.
Looking around, he spotted Mordecai's disconnected phone charger. Before pulling the chain to turn off the small lamp that illuminated his sleeping area, Rigby asked himself, "I wonder what happened to his cell phone?"
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The chapter title references both Mordecai's status as a bluejay and his depressed mood regarding his feelings of rejection. To drive it home further, I had the other guys spend the evening at a blues club, getting drunk and having fun. The scenes jump around a bit, so I'm grateful for the horizontal lines trick. I hope it's easy to understand. Also, the piss-on-shoe scene with Rigby is based on a true story involving a friend of mine. I hope you like it. Now that I got the old chapters repolished and am in a moment of inspiration, I will try my best to keep the ball rolling with new content. Expect another chapter next week.
~ J.H
