(from “Cocaine Monk”)
The club was thumping boom boom boom and I sat alone at the bar, watching the pretty girls in their miniskirts dance boom boom boom, wanting them, dreaming, not drunk enough to lose myself, to have fun. Arms stretched over me, men shouting for drinks, their noisy shirts stained with sweat, their sweat filling my nostrils, making me gag, chasing the gag with my shot of rye, then ordering another and another. Soon to be ripe, I was getting ready to dance, my head bob bob bobbing to the obnoxious beat, my foot tap tap tapping, the gorgeous bartender watching me with a smile. Boom boom boom. I downed my shot, ordered another. The bartender grazed my hand as I gave her change. She grazed my hand and looked me in the eye and pursued her lips so I gave her a two dollar tip. Boom boom boom.
All right, I was saying to myself. All right. I always have to give myself courage like this, always have to talk myself into adventure. I was in a new city and I wanted to get laid. I wasn’t going to get laid sitting on a barstool. So there I was, working up the courage, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a fleshy mouth moving and I shouted, “What?!”
“Is anyone sitting here?” the man said, pointing to the stool beside me.
“No.”
He propped his bulk onto the vinyl stool, ordered a vodka cranberry. He leaned close into my ear and his hot breath said, “Having fun?”
“Sure.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Rye.”
“Straight?”
“Straight.”
“Let me buy you another one.”
Of course I said yes: I never turn down a drink, even if it’s being offered by an overweight, olive-skinned guido in a multi-coloured shirt. The man ordered, lit a cigarette, and I thought about his greased-spiked hair catching fire. He took a few puffs, then offered me one. I accepted.
“New in town?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Your shirt,” he said. “It’s too plain.”
“Is it?”
“If you want to score here, you need a better shirt.”
“I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”
“And what’s that?” he said, pointing to the vermillion string around my neck. He reached over an oily finger, slipped it down my collar and pulled out my pendant. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s the Buddha,” I said—I didn’t like people touching it.
“The Buddha? Oh, shit.”
He called the bartender, ordered me another drink.
“What do you have against the Buddha?”
“Where did you get it?” he asked, avoiding the question.
“In Thailand.”
“Tell me about Bangkok,” he said. “Is it as crazy as I hear?”
“All the rumours are true.”
“Shit,” he said again, looking thoughtful.
“So what do you have against the Buddha?”
“That fucking Buddha,” he said. “I know all about it.”
“Yeah?”
“I know all a-fucking ‘bout it.” He sipped his drink, looked over the bar, then said, “I’ll buy another round if we sit somewhere quiet.”
Now, I was feeling a little heady from the shots, and a good quiet sit-down would do me some good, clear out the booze, help me with the courage I needed to hit the dance floor. That’s what I thought: courage. And nuts to this old fag, drunk-me thought, a drink is a drink—just watch his hands so nothing’s gets mixed in.
“Make it with ice.”
The drink came and I followed him across the strobe-lit room and through a clear, swinging door. A few couples were making out on leather couches; in others, clubbers swam in their own vomit. Someone moaned from a dark corner and there was no telling if it was sickness or sex. I took a seat next to the man, sipped my drink. They had the music piped in through speakers, but soft. Still, the man shouted when he said, “That fucking Buddha.”
One of the couples looked our way. A girl hissed. The man picked his teeth, then said, “That fucking Buddha ruined Vinnie’s life.”
(to be continued)
Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Shawn Otis
