Bagger On Fire - Page 3

The bartender couldn't hit me fast enough. I slammed the McCormick home and quelled the pain in my vengeful esophagus with a Coke back. Forty or so dollars later, some European freak started asking me about cocaine. Just try to get the drop on me. I don't know any peers, much less dope peddlers. In the same sentence as "methamphetamine," he directed my attention to a table of young ladies. Wasted and fully reminded that women exist, I'm intrigued. Rather than tell the shapely girls what was on my mind (the implosion of the free world), I asked them who they "liked" for the playoffs. Football is obviously in season . . . and maybe basketball or something, whatever.

Euro-freak passed out some Pez from an amber dispenser with a fat bonus for me, probably for buying him a shot and not for insulting him with a laugh. Back on earth, I told the foxy blonde majoring in business to blow off her "future" in light of the impending uber-depression. Seems like that was the wrong line. I lost the last brunette standing to a dullard who probably uses his cell phone to tell time. Even happily intoxicated, the charm that got me fired from Taco Bell shines through. After last call, I was escorted out by a fat man with orange hair. In retrospect, I don't think that bar has a bouncer.

Savoring the crisp air, I smell the old foreboding of desolation in the wind. Deserted streets are my red carpet as the city's far north sleeps. Under infinite blackness, the dead of night is sublime and pure. Now I'm eager to blast that violin sonata and see my cat. The best part about working evenings is spending the nights in sweet solitude.

Article Author: Joe Harris

Joe Harris is a disgruntled writer with an affinity for loud music and paisley ties. The misanthropic fulminator enjoys sarcasm but has a tolerance for little else than alcohol. A veteran supermarket flunkie who abhors customers, Harris copes with the tedium of menial labor by brooding on the job. …

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