artsmart's Guestbook

"Do you want to get out of here?"
She looked like a Holly. Or a Loraine. Or a Brandalyn, because I imagined she was born around the time people started calling their kids names like Brandalyn. The tap-tap-tap and accompanying feedback whine of the microphone squealed from the other room as an open-mic newcomer took to the stage. "Is this thing on?"
Yes, it's on, my inner monologue responded. You just heard the last guy finish up. Amatures.
As I continued looking at the face of the girl with the perfect complection and Aquiline nose, I held up my right hand and used my thumb to point to a silver ring attached to my ring finger. It wasn't a wedding band, but it was a symbol of commitment. At least that's what we had told one another. "Can't," I coyly replied.
"No, I mean, do you want to get out of here? You're really creeping my friend out; the way you've just been staring at her and writing in your stupid book," Holly, or Loraine, or now most definitely Brandalyn, responded.
I laughed inside but decided to show no outward sign of emotion. I hadn't been staring at her friend. I had been drawing the chair her friend was sitting in, as it reminded me of the Victorian one my grandmother had in her house before it burned down in '93. "Sure, I'll get out of here."
Brandalyn harrumphed in satisfaction and returned to her friend. I spun around on my heels, leaving my sketchbook behind, as I knew the staff would recognize it and hold it for me behind the counter.
As I stepped out the front door and into the early evening I was immediately pelted by those tiny ice balls you only seem to come across in the Midwest. If I'd brought my hoodie, I would have pulled it up over my face. Instead I had to let the sting of the late fall/early winter seasonal transition remind me that even though we'd landed on the Moon, we were still constant victims to Mother Earth's fluctuating temperament.
It had been my freshman year when a former employee stormed into the Beanstalk Cafe and opened fire on its patrons and staff. The victims were now immortalized on a plaque clearly displayed behind the counter. I was there for the service and heard each one of their names called out in memoriam. Yet with each passing semester their names became fuzzier, and I had to read the plaque on occasion to remind myself of not only who they were, but who I had been.
I walked past the bars I used to frequent, now just hazy memories of reckless times and casual indiscretions. I had to admit that I probably had a little too good of a time in those bars, as I was now in my final year, although my second attempt at being a senior. I had to stop drinking if I wanted my folks to pay for a ninth and tenth semester at Princemoore University, and I was willing to give up the booze for a year if it meant graduating without a single dollar of student debt.
The midterm elections were tomorrow and we would see if the Democrats were going to retake the House. It was still amazing that we didn't have our first female head of state. Over 50 other countries already had at some time a female head of state and I couldn't help but note the irony of our nation's reluctance, considering we were the source of the modern democratic movement. Some jackass in a Guy Fawkes nearly ran me over.
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November!" he shouted.
"Guy Fawkes was a religious fundamentalist who was trying to install a Catholic theocracy, you ignorant douchebag!" I yelled back. More irony.
Wendy's apartment was only a few blocks away, but I decided to make my way back to my own house instead. We were committed, but we weren't codependent. Besides, I needed a little break from my almost certain-to-be future wife. She was under an immense amount of pressure for a project in one of her business classes and my presence, while acceptable, had clearly been distracting and disrupting over the last couple of weeks. What I thought was only a gust had persistently transformed into a squall, and my intentions of quickly shuffling home were dashed like small ice pellets across the sidewalk.
"Fuck this shit," I commented aloud to no one but myself, and I took refuge in the most southwest business on the University Mall strip, a sports bar called Halftimes. It was nice and warm, and my cheeks started to sting. The place was already filling up for the weekly contest between two sets of 53 player teams, most of whom I suspected had severe brain trauma.
Unlike the stereotypical artist aversion to sports and athletic competition, I was actually pretty neutral on the topic. I watched a game now and then, as I could appreciate the players' talents. But I neither indulged in the joys of winning nor the doldrums of defeat. I spotted a buddy of mine seated alone at the end of the bar and I made my way towards him.
"What's up, Big Ben?" It was true that he was big, 6'10 and about 300 pounds to be exact, but his name was actually Doug. We all called him Big Ben because we had agreed years ago that Big Doug sounded kind of retarded.
"Travis, you son-of-a-bitch, how ya been?" he asked, patting me on the shoulder as he always did. The guy was a sweetheart, quite honestly the nicest person I'd ever met in my life. And I had met the Dalai Lama.
"Oh, you know, same ole shit, different day," I answered as I took the seat to his right. I looked up at the giant flat screen behind the bar to see the middle of a commercial for Schmutziger beer. "So, who's playing?"
"Olympians and the Wranglers," Big Ben informed me.
"Who do you think is going to win?" I asked, not really caring all that much, but understanding what the game meant to my friend.
Big Ben's face lit up. He loved to talk sports. A congenital heart condition kept him off the field so his only outlet was watching, analysis, and an occasional bet here and there. "It's gonna be close, but I'd have to say that the Wranglers are gonna pull this one off. They just picked up Gervelius Jackson from the Stallions, so that's gonna give 'em a great position in the slot. Plus, with Williams coming back after that hamstring injury, I don't really think the Olympian's line is gonna be able to stop him. I'm predicting Wranglers 17, Olympians 7."
I smiled and nodded, not fully understanding the lingo, but knowing that if I were a betting man, I'd be putting my money on the Wranglers.
The music in this place was too loud and the genre wasn't my bag of tea, but they did have the best wings in town and my stomach subtly reminded me that it was well past my usual suppertime. "I'm thinking about ordering some food. Do you want anything?" I offered.
"Yeah, what're you thinkin'?"
"Hard to beat the wings," I noted.
"True, true," Big Ben acknowledged. "Split an order of 30 and do some onion rings and fries?"
"I don't think I can argue with that. You like the BBQ, right?" I inquired, remembering that he wasn't a huge fan of spicy.
"That or Memphis rub," he suggested before downing the rest of his beer.
"I actually like both those. Half and half?"
"Perfect. You want a beer?" he prompted as he started to get the bartender's attention.
I did want a beer. There were many things in this world that seemed to go together in perfect harmony. Peanut butter and jelly was one. Coffee and cigarettes another. Then you have mashed potatoes and gravy. And of course, beer and chicken wings.
"Alas, I cannot. Still on hiatus. But you bet your Samoan ass I'll be doing keg stands til dawn on graduation day," I predicted.
Ben smiled. "I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd be able to stay on the wagon this long. Your folks must be really proud."
"I wouldn't say 'proud' was the best descriptor. More like... encouraged," I joked.
Big Ben chuckled and patted me on the back just as the bartender, a long-timer named Meghan, approached the two of us.
"I'm so sorry. What can I getcha?" she inquired.
We gave our order and she promptly input it into her POS terminal before pouring Big Ben a refill, and then sliding it down the bar with practiced precision.
Big Ben downed half the foamy beverage in one gulp, then set the mug back in front of him. The background music stopped and was subsequently replaced with the sounds of one of the games. I scanned the various screens, trying to match the pictures with the game analysis.