Whiskey Bar

I’ve been cooped up, smothered like a chicken in a room ten feet by ten feet for days now. With no sense of reality to the outdoor world, to conversation, to responsibility, to action, I despair. I have a plan of action and initiating it isn’t hard. The chicken is squeezed out of the coop and shoved in a persuading manner to the runway. The weapons are loaded, fuel pumped, compass coordinated with map, and propeller spun. The chicken roars down the runway. This part is easy to initiate, to energize the soul to get started on productivity. It’s when the time comes for kamikaze dive bomb sequence that I get distracted and despaired and stair out of the window wondering about the “Lost Generation” or who was the man behind Jack Daniel’s whiskey in figure and not in name obviously as that would be a wasteful wondering, a waste of time.

But then there are more proper and pertinent expenditures of time, like buying orange juice in a store several miles from home and riding on trains away from the center of the city. Yes these things are a better expenditure of time. But what about deadlines and the planning of action to meet these deadlines? This dwarfs when compared to the whiskey bar.

The wall to the rear of the bar lined with bourbon, rye whiskey, corn whiskey, low balls, and high balls. The mirror directly central in the whiskey bar reflects light blinding my sight. It channels and routes energy, the excitement, the bru-ha-ha, bravery found sipping an ale. My words flow to her like leaves and soot in the autumn wind. We smoke cigarettes. We talk of zodiac signs and horoscopes. She informs me of my horoscope as I am unfamiliar with my own. I ask her pointless things.

“What kind of music do you like?”

“That is somewhat random, as we were discussing marketing.”

“I know.”

I assess her lip piercing and her shoes, assuming she had acquired a specific taste for tunes. I’m not worried about my question.

“Well sir, I like all kinds of music”

The response is vague and bleak. I can’t tell if she’s mocking, kidding, or dead serious. I report back to my ale for a second opinion, a fresh set of eyes if you will. My ale fails me. Ales tend to be deceptive and inconsistent with their effects on the avid whiskey bar attendee, never quite giving that desired effect of confidence and suave. There’s always some sort of desperate effect.

The next day the festival is over. Back to responsibility, back to nine to five, back to the ten by ten chicken coop room after the nine to five. Only I don’t want it. I want the whiskey bar: the red oak veneer on the walls and high vaulted ceilings portraying spaghetti westerns with the piano man playing Roadhouse Blues. Instead I sit wondering the whereabouts of old peers and even older classmates. I wonder what to eat for lunch and whether or not I will get work done. Should I put the pencil to the paper? I watch the lead paint the page, part permanent, part crumbling into dust.