Wake me up at beer thirty part 3

Phyllis pointed “onto” my skull with her decrepit digit as she passed behind me and the quaffed hair I was sportin’ that Friday.

She said bye.

“I’ll be seeing you later.”

“Oh I see what you did there!” Sherrie laughed as she picked up the creepy undertaker vibe I was putting down.

Shortly after, Sherrie and I left for Mephistopheles.

We pulled our bar stools out and sat down to the lukewarm crowd. The bar was also a hotel with a reputation for being haunted. I favored its nonchalant environment and could sometimes be found there; half in the bag.

The pretzel bites and beer battered queso gave us the salt and bread we needed to pony up for the rest of the night.

I bought us a second round of Jameson and beers.

“You should stop by my place. I got a little smoke if you wanna get hi?”


“Just don’t act weird.”

“I thought weird is why you found me charming.”

The bar manager Philip stopped by our table. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

A bearded biker looking guy walked up to our table. He had left his cigarettes behind. As he walked away Sherrie made a joke about stealing them. He laughed it off and kept moving. As he reached for the door, Sherrie joked, “I licked them all.”

“That would be okay with me,” biker man shot her a grin.

The thought of jealousy creeped around me again. I laughed it off. Sex with coworkers can be fun. But often. Someone wants more than what the other has to offer. Then it gets real awkward.

We went back inside and the bar was jam packed. Standing room. Like sardines. Sherrie took the lead as she spoke with every middle aged woman who was in the direct line of sight to our stools. It was a birthday party for a 5o-ish bleach blonde woman. She seemed friendly.

We sat at the bar, about to take our last shot. Then a dark skinned Chicana sidled up to Sherrie’s right. I couldn’t hear the entire conversation but the Chicana mentioned my tattoos and offered to show us hers. She leaned against the bar and slid her white shorts down revealing a tattoo and a baby blue thong. Sherrie let out a cackle and slapped the woman on her ass with a playfulness that got me thinking, “keep your mouth shut dummy, you’re about to see something awesome. ”

Chicana slid between me and Sherrie while saying, “cheers ” as she raised her glass to my beer. She couldn’t take her eyes off my arms as Sherrie joined in for the salute.

Before I went to Sherrie’s place I went back to my parent’s for 2 shots of Tequila I had laying around since the week before.

By the time I got to her place she was already down to a t-shirt and a small pair of cotton shorts. Her ass unfurled. I played it cool.

We laughed and drank. Smoked and enjoyed each other’s company.

“I don’t know what your relationship is but I can help you with that.”

I had no idea what the fuck that meant. I lowered my voice as she whispered “yeah like that.”

We giggled then the subject changed. Then again. Then that awkward moment passed.

We said goodbye and I drove home.

Me and Sherrie grew closer. We were good friends. Many laughs and many adventures. Eventually I quit the job and she met her boyfriend.

Wake me up at beer thirty part 2

Before I continue the second part of wake me up at beer thirty, I want to tell you about the worst pitch for heroin use.

In my beer thirty post(part 1) I mentioned growing up in a German town. For a while, I also lived in North Texas.

I was renting a room at the house of a bartender I knew from a local bar I frequented. For the most part I was alone and Gary the bartender didn’t care if I smoked pot, drank excessively at odd times of the day, partied on white, or just had a bunch of random strangers at the house. Gary wasn’t really home that much.

He approached me one afternoon and said “hey J you like to smoke pot righ? Have you ever thought of trying heroin?”

I laughed at the absurdity of his delivery. He stood there in the shadow of silence. I walked into the kitchen thinking, I should probably consider moving.

Wake me up at beer thirty pt2

Jimmie nine fingers leaned against the picnic table, his elbow perched on his knee, palm to chin. He leered at the table to my right. A flock of geriatric drinkers sat conversing among themselves. Sherrie and I were ready to bounce when I noticed Jimmie had made his way over to the table. Embracing, hugging and laughing as he made his way around the table.

A man with a hat that seemed part fedora and part cowboy, grumbled from behind dirty sunglasses, “hey it’s Jimmie and he can’t even count to ten!”

A few minutes and some handshakes later Jimmie made his way over to a miniature Phyllis Diller looking geezer and he accidentally spilled her beer. It seemed coincidental.

She stood up as Jimmie wiped the table. He introduced us and mentioned that I worked at a local funeral home. The grey haired, jewel bespeckled woman turned her attention to me. She went on about how, “the funeral home must be busy with the population growth.”

Phyllis leaned closer and slurred, “I can’t believe the funeral home would let you work there with all those tattoos.” As she said that she took her boney, Crypt Keeper finger and ran it up and down my forearm.

“I wear a suit and tie,” I responded plainly.

I couldn’t figure out if she was just curious, bothered by my tattoos, being flirtatious or if someone had slipped LSD into my beer and I had somehow wandered into an episode of the Golden Girls.

“Do you know Roy?” German Mario asked.

“Roy?! You know Roy? He’s one of my homies,” I said. Me and Mario talked about our mutual friend.

“Yeah we call him Jew boy” Mario said as he smirked.

Roy was German, from New Jersey but his accent did make me think (before I got to know him) that he was an old Jewish guy from New York. Mario went on to say the same thing.

I thought about my friend Roy and the name Jew boy and I began to miss my ex. She used the slur to make a joke once and it became our own private joke. I started to feel sad. I looked at Sherrie and suggested we go to the next bar

To be continued