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3/25/2002
EAR PLUGS
It's free pool night at the bar still known as "Formerly Known as Dottie's",
despite it being a year since "Dottie's" closed and "Lenny’s"
opened. At the pool table is a man who guts and cleans deer for a living, 50
a day gets him $200. He's got fourteen grand in savings, in part due to his
time in the Gulf War, and he's missed his bus to Ocala tonight so he's staying
in Atlanta and looking for a place where he can party, "And I don't consider
drinking beer to be partying."
Lenny is tending bar, though the place is only coincidentally named Lenny's,
and grumbling about turning 40 at midnight. No celebration, no party, just another
slow night at the bar. He's used to the years at The Point where there was rarely
a slow night and time flew by. Now he watches TV and engages in long conversations
between the occasional drink order.
Three punk/skinhead regulars wander in, girls who are rebelling against society
by all getting the exact same (terrible) haircuts - crew cut short on top, but
long locks framing their dour faces - and the exact same clothes - tight jeans,
big boots, flight jackets, a look that was cutting edge 25 years ago but has
now become a uniform. Reminds me of what the mayor of Seattle said after the
violent protests there against the world trade organization meetings, "Organized
anarchists from Oregon." Organized anarchy?
The DJ finally shows up and shuts off all the lights in the music area, cranking
up a mix of slightly outdated Jamaican and hip hop, heavy on the bass, light
on the lyrical content, and dances alone in the dark room.
In walks a black man with a humble, defeated look despite his friendly smile
and gentlemanly manner. Homeless beggar straight out of the Veteran's hospital,
wristband still in place, arms covered in tattoos, and chest tattooed with scars
courtesy of the Viet Cong. "I don't do drugs, except smoke and drink occasionally."
Super nice guy who should be beaming with pride at still being alive, but instead
hangs around like a lost puppy looking for scraps.
Head throbbing in the morning, I'm fighting my own enemy, but instead of hunting
Charlie with an M-16 I'm sitting in the window trying pick of the squirrels
with a pellet gun. (It seems about as easy as hitting a moving target from a
6th story window three times with a bolt action rifle.) I'm doing my own begging
for scraps, sending proposals and estimates and résumés and instead
of cruising bars I'm cruising job boards but at least I have a roof over my
head and congress has extended unemployment benefits another 13 weeks.
Economic recovery my ass.
All this at a time when all I want to do is head south, leap out of the car
onto a beach full of half naked spring breakers and throw then down into the
sand and screw them silly one by one (or two by two), bathe in a vat of alcohol
and shrimp cocktail and not come home until I'm too sore, too hungover and too
bored to take another day. Too bad I'm too broke to leave the house. eMpTyV
tortures me daily with scenes from Cancun, bouncing breasts and big grins, shitty
music tuned out thanks to the MUTE on screen.
Ah, spring!
Take me to Degenerate Press' home page!
There's no place like home... no place like home...
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