Every Night Should Be Tuesday Night

I woke to the sound of a giant mosquito buzzing in my bedroom.  I opened my eyes.  It was still dark.  I zeroed in on the sound and swatted the obnoxious bug, silencing it.  The bug turned out to be my alarm clock.  I hated that sound; that’s why I bought it.  It always wakes me and I’m never tempted to hit the snooze button which would force me to hear the irritating bug a second time.1

It was time to start another day.  Another exciting day in the life of Ezekiel Banyon.  Yeah, that’s right, Ezekiel.  Man, I hate that name.  My friends, well, back when I had friends, called me Zeke.  Thanks mom!  Thanks for the gift that keeps on giving.  Not a single day goes by when someone doesn’t have something to say after hearing my name.  In a fit of religious fervor, mother decided that I had to be named after someone in the Bible.  What the heck was wrong with Matthew, Mark, Luke or John?  Didn’t she realize, when she hung that name on me, that she was hanging a target on my back for every sling and arrow - sling.  I’m back to the Bible.  I guess it could have been worse, she could have named me Goliath.  No, I actually think Goliath would have been easier to bear over the years.2

I sat up and tried to lick my lips.  They were glued together.  I pried them apart with my tongue and smacked them a few times.  I scrapped my rough tongue across the roof of my mouth, swallowed the pasty film that had accumulated and regretted having onions on that pizza last night.  I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light.  My eyes slammed shut and I peered into the mirror through slits as I waited for them to adjust to the fluorescent glare.  After a few agonizing moments, my pupils contracted and I unfurled my eyebrows to let more light in.  There I was, staring back with a face not even a mother could love, which she had proved time and time again.  I focused on the hawkish nose which had earned me the nickname of Eagle Banyon as a kid.3

“Thanks for nothing, Tommy.”  I mumbled as I traced my forefinger over the hump on the bridge of my nose.  Two-Tone Tommy, that’s what we called him because he had two different colored eyes, whacked me in the face with a hockey stick when I was ten years old.  We were playing a game, which we had invented, called combat hockey.  We didn’t fight each other; the object of the game was to attack and kill the hockey puck.  Well, Tommy had a real mean swing, but he wasn’t known for his aim.  He completely missed the puck and smacked me right in the face with a mighty blow.  He busted my nose open like a piñata, but it wasn’t candy that flew out.  That was twenty years ago.  Nobody calls me Eagle no more.  Nobody calls me nothing; which is definitely preferable to Ezekiel.4

I looked at my steel gray eyes and moved them in a small circle.  They moved in unison, but the left one was slightly out of parallel with the other.5

“Thanks again, Tommy, I’d love to return the favor.”6

My cheeks are speckled with pits and pockmarks caused by hormonal volcanoes that erupted on my face during my formative teens.  I checked my teeth.  They didn’t look nearly as fuzzy as they felt.  Man, what a set of Bucky Beavers;  I had a killer overbite that made me feel like a giant rabbit.  My hair hung on my head like the strands of a wet mop.  I have this condition . . . I can’t even pronounce it, but it gives me perpetually oily hair.  It’s too bad I can’t bottle and market the stuff as a lubricant.        7

Well, there I was, in all my shining glory.  To top it all off, earlier this week, my stupid doctor said I was overweight and appeared to be suffering from low self-esteem.  I almost laughed when he said that.  Me?  Low self-esteem?  HA!  He was being too kind.  I’m suffering from no self-esteem.  I hate the way I look.  I’m a walking billboard for Extreme Makeover.  I hate my life, my job . . . Everything.  My job.  Yeah, as much as I hate it, it pays the bills.  Speaking of which, if I’m late again, I’ll be looking for a new job to hate.  I stopped admiring myself and got ready for work.8

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 9

Three minutes to go.  Three more minutes and I can escape from this lunatic asylum which fronts as an accounting firm.  My eyes danced between the clock on the wall, to my left, and my boss’s office which was conveniently located right in front of my desk.  Two and a half minutes to go.  I read the engraved nameplate on his door for the millionth time: Bruce Wilkerson - Junior Partner.  I was the senior gopher for a junior partner.  Bruce was a minor player on the management team, but he was a major pain in the neck.  One of his career goals is making my life as miserable as possible.  Bruce’s game was off today.  He missed every golden opportunity which presented itself.  Not once did he complain, bully or threaten to fire me.  I’m sure he’ll make up for it tomorrow.  One minute to go.  I kept staring at his door.  I know he’s in there.  He’s probably thinking feverishly of some way to ruin my night since he failed to do so during the day.  I looked at the clock and started counting down, five . . . four . . . Three . . .10

“Banyon.”11

I jumped as he shouted my name.  “Yessir, Mr. Wilkerson, sir.”12

He rolled up to my desk like a thundercloud, dropped a huge, messy pile of papers on it, saying.  “I need these sorted alphabetically by client and each client sorted chronologically.  First thing tomorrow morning; FIRST thing!” 13

“Yessir, Mr. Wilkerson, sir.”14

“Stop sucking up, it’s disgusting.”15

“I’m sorry, sir.”16

“And stop saying you’re sorry all the time.”17

“Yessir, I’m . . .”   I caught myself and my voice trailed into silence.  He returned to his lair.  I looked at the clock.  Thirty seconds past five.  Congratulations Bruce ol’ buddy.  I knew you had it in you.  You’ve never let me down yet.  Not only did you find an excuse to yell at me, but you did it on my time so you didn’t have to pay me.  I grabbed my coat and left.18

Most people hurry home from work to do things with friends or family; not me, I had neither.  There was no one that I could call family; no father; no mother; no brothers nor sisters.  Sure I had a male parent, a sperm donor who helped to create me, but I never knew him.  His disappearance from the family scene predates my memory.  He may have left before I was born, for all I know.  Mom never talked about him.  I don’t even know what his first name is, or was.  He could be dead for all I know, or I could have walked past him on the street this morning.  Who knows?  Who cares?19

Then there’s mom, God rest her weary bones.  That’s assuming, of course, that He’s in charge of her now.  She’s been gone for several years.  She taught me all my graceful, social skills.  She never let me do anything as a kid and successfully robbed me of my childhood.  She guarded her emotions like a fifth of Jack Daniels; keeping them both deep inside, and yet, my emotions were her personal doormat.  Over the years, I became intimately familiar with the back of her hand.  I can credit my finely honed attitude to her constant reminders of how utterly useless and good-for-nothing I was and always would be.  Her endless nagging and ridicule were real ego boosters.  Thanks mom!  I couldn’t have turned out to be a worthless loser without your precious help.  Miss you mom.  For many years she conducted a personal experiment to find out which would kill her faster, booze or cigarettes.  The booze won.  I guess it’s true what they say about liquor being quicker.20

Then there’s my siblings.  What about them?  They were the lucky ones.  They were never born.  I never had any brothers or sisters to share in all the comforts of home.  No one to help absorb the wrath of a manic-depressive drunk who’s life was apparently ruined by the mere fact that I came into the world.  Sorry mom, but you know, it actually wasn’t my fault.  Yeah, your life was rough, but mine was no picnic either; and you thought your life might have been better without me?  Mine definitely would have been better without you.  Well, sorry mom, but I have to get on with the rest of my miserable life. It’s been real nice chatting with you.  This has been one of the longest conversations that we’ve ever had.  It’s been a real pleasure, we’ll have to do it again sometime.21

Alright, who’s left?  Ah yes, the friends; the true blue companions who are always there when you need them.  Yup, until they find out that you can’t go over to visit and they can’t come for sleepovers; no birthday parties; no ballgames; no movies; no nothing.  Who wants a friend that can’t do anything?  Sure, there was Two-Tone, but after he busted in my face, he became rather scarce.  I did have a few friends after I became Eagle Banyon, but the novelty of hanging around a guy with a hawk nose wears off pretty fast.  So, for most of my life, I’ve been on my own and I am my own best friend.  I’m not much to brag about, but I’m always here when I need me and I never whacked myself in the face with a hockey stick neither.22

I read something once by some pathetically optimistic guy who said, ’there’s someone for everyone’ and ’the world is full of friends just waiting to be made.’  That was obviously written before I was born, and yet, deep within the frozen crevices of my heart, I want to believe those words.  Call me optimist or call me idiot, it doesn’t matter, they’re both the same, but I have been trying for years to find that special someone.  Heck, I’d be satisfied with someone who was willing to give me a second look and a dozen consecutive words in conversation.  I’ve tried to make friends, I really have.  I’ve tried at church, at the shopping mall, in the library, all to no avail.  I’ve even resorted to cruising some of the local bars.  Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason these special someones are so special, is because they are invisible.23

And so, with absolutely nothing better to do with my free time, I continue to hunt for the elusive quarry called friend.  Each night I beat a new path through the teaming jungle called humanity in the hopes that somehow, somewhere, I’ll find someone who will be special to me.24

~ ~ ~ ~ ~25

It was night.  Soon today would slip silently into tomorrow.  I was walking aimlessly down one street and up another.  It was a cold night, but not cold enough to prevent me from walking; not that I had much choice.  My wonderful and rewarding job wasn’t rewarding enough to afford me the luxury of vehicle ownership.  Oh well, maybe if I scrimp my pennies long enough . . . I thought about Mr. Wilkerson tooling down the road in his silver Beamer.  Maybe, someday, when I work my way up the corporate ladder . . . oh yeah, I forgot; they have a saying at work, ’once a gopher, always a gopher.’  I guess they don’t believe in evolution.  A hilarious image popped into my head; a buck-toothed gopher driving a BMW - ha, me driving a beamer - just another fanciful dream.26

Lately, dreaming had become my favorite form of entertainment and I was so engrossed by my current mental meandering that I hadn’t realized where I was.  I was in a part of town that most respectable, law abiding citizens would never enter.  It’s what they would call the seedy part of town.  If a city could be compared to a living body, downtown would be the heart.  It’s the center of activity - the pulse of the city.  The neighborhood I was now walking through was close to downtown, but very undesirable.  I fondly refer to it as the armpit of town.27

I suddenly became very alert. My eyes scanned from left to right while my ears tuned to the sounds behind me.  I had to be cool and stay calm.  A few more blocks and I’d be in the shoulder of town.  I didn’t have much money on me, and it’s not like I had to worry about someone stealing my car.  Of course, some thug could come up and beat me senseless just for the fun of it.  I reminded myself that pain was purely a psychological response.  It was simply a case of mind over matter.  My mother taught me that.  It took quite a few lessons, but I learned, oh, how I learned.  But then again, being mugged was one of the few things I hadn’t tried yet in my fruitless endeavors to make a friend.  Maybe if I got mugged by the right person . . .28

I continued warily for another couple blocks, then noticed a flurry of activity up ahead.  There was a buzz of commotion in a small corner bar.  I was somewhere between the armpit and the shoulder, so I felt comfortable enough to investigate.  As I got closer, I could hear music playing; people inside were laughing, shouting and singing.  There was a sign on the door:  Mardi Gras Night, Every Tuesday.  Well, it was a Tuesday night, so I guess that explained what was going on inside.  I’d heard about Mardi Gras celebrations before, but had never actually been to one so I decided to go in and check it out.29

As I walked through the door, I was greeted by a woman who smiled at me, yes, I’m sure it was me she was smiling at, and said, “Welcome to Mardi Gras Night,” as she hung an oversized necklace of bright purple plastic beads around my neck.  Man, the place was packed and everyone was having a great time.  I squeezed my way up to the bar and ordered a beer.  I wasn’t much of a drinker, actually, it had been years since I drank a beer, but I decided it might help me loosen up.  When the bartender brought it, I asked, “Wasn’t Mardi Gras last month?”30

“Of course,” he said, “we had such a wild and crazy party dat we decided ta do it again da followin’ Tuesday.  It was a whoppin’ success, so now every Tuesday night is Mardi Gras Night!”31

As he slid the beer toward me, I noticed he had a small nametag on his shirt pocket that said Mike.  I dug out my wallet.32

“First one’s on da house on Mardi Gras Night.” Then he said, “Now don’t try and sneak out without buying a couple, okay?”  He winked and gave me a smile as he moved down the line to wait on a thirsty customer.33

I nodded and said, “Thanks Mike.”  WOW!  A free beer.  This place was great.  I chugged it down.  The guy next to me turned and asked, “Whatcha think of this band?”34

It was so noisy and crowded that I didn’t realize there was a live band playing on the other side of the bouncing mob.  I focused my ears on the music for a few seconds and said, “It seems to me that singing talent is no longer a prerequisite to be in a band, but the ability to scream into the microphone at the top of your lungs without popping a vein in your neck is.”35

“Alright!”  He laughed and clapped me on the back like I had just scored a touchdown or something.  He started bobbing his head and blended into the bouncing dancers.36

The necklace lady had run out of beads to give away and was working her way through the crowd.  She came right up, leaned into me and asked, “Ya buyin’”  She batted her eyes a few times, smiled and looked up at me through those long, fake eyelashes.  Man, it was getting hot in there.37

I smiled back sheepishly and caught Mike’s attention.  I held up two fingers, then pointed to my empty beer glass.  He brought the beers and I slid a five across the bar and said, “Keep the change.”38

He looked at Abe and asked, “What change?”39

I was embarrassed, but I chuckled like I was joking with him and said, “That’s for the first one.”  I pulled out another five and handed it to him.  He smiled and thanked me.  I was ready to engage in some serious small talk as I turned back toward my new lady friend, but she had already guzzled her beer and was leaning on the guy on the other side of her, giving him the eye routine.  Oh well, I didn’t mind.  She had actually talked to me.  I was in Heaven.  I grabbed a couple peanuts from a wicker basket on the bar and sipped my beer as I tried to decipher the lyrics of the current song.40

A really fine looking blond came up to the bar next to me.  She looked at me and said, “I don’t recognize you.  Do you come here often?”41

I looked around to see who she was talking to.  She was talking to me.  I cleared my throat, “No,” then added, “but I plan to.”42

She asked, “What’s your name?”43

Oh, oh - trick question.  Truth or lie, truth or lie?  I had to decide fast.44

“Zeke.”45

“That’s kinda cool.  Is it short for something?”46

“No, just Zeke.”  I had done both.47

She turned, slapped her hand on the bar and barked, “Bartender,” like a seasoned pro.  She was wearing an oversized, gold wristwatch that banged noisily against the bar.  I tried to read the bouncing dial.  I choked on my beer.48

She spun around and asked sincerely, “Are you okay?”49

“Yeah, thanks.  Peanut went down the wrong way.”  I looked at my watch in the hopes that hers was wrong.  Holy man in the moon!  It was after midnight and I had to work in the morning.  The pile of papers on my desk and the look on Wilkerson’s face loomed in my memory.  I had to leave.50

As she ordered a beer, I pushed a five across the bar and said, “This one’s on me Mike.”51

She looked genuinely surprised and said, “Thanks, should we find a table?”52

Oh man, my heart was aching.  “I wish I could, but I have this early morning thing coming up.  I have to get going.  Maybe next time?”53

“It’s a date.” she said and flashed her pearly whites at me.54

Oh man, oh man, oh man - leaving there was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  I hated my job even more.  I floated all the way home.  Even though it was late, I floated the long way home and avoided the armpit.55

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 56

My eyes popped open.  I looked at the luminous numbers on the clock.  It was five minutes before the alarm was set to annoy me into consciousness.  Weird.  I’d never woke up early before, ever.  I hopped out of bed, went into the bathroom and turned on the fluorescent light.  It didn’t seem so bright today.  Despite the late night beers and the lack of sleep, I was feeling pretty good; I had a slight headache, but I attributed that to the Raving Lunatics that were singing last night. I couldn’t remember the band’s name, but that’s what I called them.  If I stopped thinking and moving, I could hear echoes of the lead singer’s screaming still bouncing around in the back of my brain.  Well, the cure to that was to keep thinking; that was easy, I kept thinking about what coulda, shoulda happened last night.  To keep moving,  I was ready for work in near record time and flew out the door.57

Good ol’ Bruce didn’t stand a chance today.  There was no way on God’s green Earth that he could ruin my day.  I was still flying pretty high from my encounter with Little Miss Blond Pearly White.  I couldn’t wait to see her again.  I had no idea whether she would be at the bar again tonight or not, but I was going to find out.  That bar was the coolest, most happeningest place I’d ever been to.  The hours flew by.  My enthusiasm and efficiency left Brucie Baby speechless.  He had no ammunition for his complaint gun.  When he came in, the papers were neatly sorted and stacked on his desk.  I anticipated his every request and had them half done by the time he asked.  Yup, Zeke was on top of his game and Mr. W could only sit back and watch.  I gave him a smile and a nod as I left at the end of the day.  He just stood there with his mouth hanging open.58

I beat an oval pattern into my carpet as I paced around my living room.  I was as nervous as a teenager on his first date.  But why?  There was no guarantee that she’d be there, but the hopeful expectation that she might was enough to make me giddy.  I coaxed the clock; encouraging the hands in their tortoise and hare race around the face.  When should I leave?  I dunno.  When would she be there?  I dunno.  I made a logical guess and decided that the same time as last night would make the most sense.  Better yet, I would go an hour early and wait for her.  That made more sense, but it was still a couple of hours away.  What would I do until then?  I was getting tire of pacing so I sat down.  I know; I’ll get ready.  I got up.  What should I wear?  I sat down.  I had to relax.  I got up.  I’d better get ready first and then relax.59

I went to the fridge and grabbed the open box of baking soda.  I took it to the bathroom, wet my toothbrush and dumped some on.  I scrubbed my teeth like a madman.  It tasted kinda like stale pizza, but that didn’t matter, I knew it was working.  I spit, rinsed and inspected my handiwork in the mirror.  UGH!  I loaded the brush with white pizza powder again and scrubbed.  I checked them once more.  Yeah!  Now we’re talkin’.  I dumped another white mountain on the brush and attacked my teeth yet again.  After a final rinse, I smiled at myself in the mirror and rubbed my finger across the front of my teeth.  They squeaked.60

I had to do something with my hair.  They should invent a shampoo called 911.  This was an emergency.  Regular shampoo beaded up and ran off my hair like raindrops on a freshly waxed sports car.  I grabbed six sheets of paper towel, folded the stack in half and squeegeed my head from top to bottom.  After they got damp, I folded them in half again, putting the oily side in the middle and curried my head once more.  So far, so good.  My hair was no longer dripping.  I dumped half of the remaining baking soda on my head and massaged it into my hair.  This is what I called scalp CPR.  I rubbed until my head hurt, then I got my hairdryer.  I stepped into the bathtub to contain the mess and turned the blower setting to gale.  I closed my eyes and shook my head like a wet sheepdog as I circled it with the hairdryer.  The baking soda flew off in clumps.  As my hair whipped around, I felt like one of those models in TV commercials where they are in a building, but their hair is being blown by some mysterious wind.  I shook until I got dizzy.  I shut off the dryer and checked.  All the baking soda was gone.  I stepped out of the tub, turned the showerhead on and watched all the globs swirl down the drain.  I looked in the mirror.  My hair was almost normal.  Cool.  I knew it would only be good for a couple hours, but that would be enough.  I combed it back like John Travolta.  61

Now it was time for some facial first aid.  I rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out a small plastic bottle of flesh colored skin conditioner.  I found it in a bag hanging from my doorknob about a month ago.  It had a label on it that said, “A gift to Ms. Occupant,” from Mary K or Mary L, I dunno, I can’t remember, anyway, like everything else, I kept it.  I poured some into one hand, rubbed both hands together and splashed it onto my cheeks like aftershave.  The extinct volcanoes disappeared under the cosmetic camouflage.62

I checked the time; plenty yet.  Okay, what to wear?  I wanted to look successful, but not to formal; and I wanted to look casual, but not bum-ish.  What to wear?  I slid open the right door of my closet and started sifting through the hangers.  My clothes hung from right to left by usage.  I seldom opened the left door.  I continued to flip through the hangers; no, no, no, . . . Man, this was getting serious.  It was time to look behind door number two.  No, no, definitely no, . . .  Holy Mackerel!  I pulled out a beige pair of polyester bellbottoms, along with a chenille turtleneck sweater that matched.  They looked brand new.  I wonder how long these have been in here?63

I ran out of hangers.  I was getting worried.  I had to wear something - wait a minute, I work in an office; that’s kinda professional, and being a gopher is kinda casual, so - I’ll leave these clothes on.  I checked in the mirror to see how my shirt looked.  I marble-shot a few baking soda crumbs from my shoulders and. . . Rats!  There’s a spaghetti sauce stain on the front, just below the pocket.  If it was in the middle, I could hide it under a tie.  What to do, what to do . . . Baking soda!  Yeah, that’ll work.  I grabbed my toothbrush, it was still wet, and sprinkled on some baking soda.  I gently scrubbed the stain.  It was working.  It grew lighter and lighter.  I got my hairdryer and set the blower to breeze.  Once it was dry, I brushed off the baking soda.  It worked great.  I could hardly tell where the stain was.64

Time was my enemy now.  I had to get moving.  I tucked in my shirt and went for a final inspection in front of the mirror.65

“Oh yeah!”  I winked and gave myself two thumbs up.  “Look out ladies, the Zekester is on the prowl tonight.”66

I was ready to rock-and-roll, so I hit the road, or more technically, the sidewalk.  I made a beeline to the bar.  Actually, I took the scenic bypass route, but I figured it was still an accurate statement because I was sure that even the bees would avoid the undesirable anatomy of town.67

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 68

It was just starting to get dark as I approached the bar.  There were no outward signs of activity.  There was no music nor laughter to be heard.  I walked in and was shocked by what I saw.  The place was empty, except for two guys, and, of course, the bartender, who was polishing his tapper handles.  One guy sat at the bar with his head down.  I wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or unconscious.  The other guy sat at a table gesturing with his hands and talking to absolutely no one as tears streamed from his eyes.69

I stepped up to the bar and asked Mike, “What happened?”70

“Whatcha mean?”71

“Where is everybody?”72

“Dis is about normal for a Wednesday night.” he replied. 73

“Two customers?  That’s normal?”74

“Three, yer here ain’t ya?”75

“But this place was packed last night.”76

“Dat was last night, dis is tonight.”77

“But it was such a great party.”78

“Did ya read the sign on the door?”79

“Yeah, but. . . “80

He cut me off, “What part didn’t you understand?”81

“But last night . . . “82

“Did ya read the sign on the door?” He cut me off again.83

“I already told you that I did.”84

“I thought maybe yous forgot what ya read.”85

“So, there won’t be another party until . . . “86

“Did ya read the . . . “87

“Yes! Yes!  I read the stupid sign!  Okay, I get it.  Tuesday night.  Jeez!”  I was losing my cool; had to calm down.  Calm down.  “Do you remember me from last night?”88

“Nah, there were hundreds of people, yous don’t look familiar.”89

I took that as a compliment to my grooming skills.  “I was right here at the bar with a pretty blond.”90

“I told yous, I don’t remember. . . “91

“Do you remember the blond?”92

“Do yous know how many blonds was in here last night?  He continued, “Do yous know how many of dem wasn’t blond last week?  And won’t be next week?”93

“Well, do you remember that chick who was handing out beads, hanging on guys and mooching beers?”94

“Dat’s my wife yous talkin’ ‘bout!”95

“Sorry.”  I coughed as I pulled my foot out of my mouth.96

I was getting nowhere fast with this guy.  I grabbed a peanut from the basket on the bar.97

“Dems peanuts is fer paying customers.”98

Oh brother, I thought, but said, “Give me a beer.”99

He poured the beer, slid the glass over and said, “That’ll be a buck.”100

“What?”  I was surprised, because last night . . .101

“Ya got a hearing impediment?  A buck!”102

“Last night you said . . . “103

“What?”104

“You said that . . . “105

“Wha’d I say?”  He was getting angry.106

I tried to remember if he actually said how much the beers were last night . . . No, I don’t think he did.  “No, my mistake.  It was nothing.”107

“Dat’s what I thought.”  He was calming back down.108

I put a dollar on the bar.  I felt like such an idiot, for various reasons, but the current one was that I spent fifteen dollars last night for three dollars worth of beer.  I’ll bet he’d remember me if my drinking buddy Abe Lincoln showed up at the bar with me.  I guzzled the beer down and ordered another.  All of a sudden I could afford to have a few.  He brought the next one.  I was such an idiot.  How could I have been so stupid as to believe that a pretty woman would give a greasy, rabbit-toothed, hawk-nosed, gopher a second look.  I finished my beer and ordered again.  But, she did talk to me.  She wanted to sit at a table with me.  She . . . She . . . She?  God!  I’m such a fool!  Why didn’t I ask her what her name was?109

I had replayed the party in my mind a thousand times since last night - one thousand and one - wait a minute.  I said, ‘maybe next time‘, and she said, ‘it’s a date‘.  She must have meant next Tuesday.  I’m such an idiot.110

“Hey Mike, are you definitely having a party here next Tuesday night?”111

“Did ya read . . . “112

“PLEASE!  Please don’t ask me that again.  Could you, just this once, answer my question?  Please?  Could you put my poor, feeble, impedimented mind at ease and answer my question?”113

That’s it!  You’ve had enough to drink.  Time for you to leave, and don’t forget to read the sign on you’re way out!”114

“Please, I’m begging you.  I’ll leave, I promise.”115

“Okay, alright already, ya freakin’ moron.  Yes.  Yes we’re havin’ a party next Tuesday night.  Now get outta here before I call the cops, ya nutcase.”116

“Thank you, thank you.”  I stumbled out the door.  “Thank you.”117

Mike shook his head as he wiped the bar with a rag and muttered, “I don’t believe that dang fool even knows how ta read.”118

~ ~ ~ ~ ~119

No!  Argh!  I reached out and pummeled that accursed alarm clock with my bare hands, silencing it forever.  I fell out of bed and crawled into the bathroom.  I shimmied up the wall and flicked on the light.  Fluorescent needles stitched my eyes shut.  I put my hands over my ears to stop the noise, it only got louder.  I ran my hands through my hair.  It was stiff and gritty.  My cracked lips were sealed like an envelope.  I used my tongue as a letter opener and sliced them apart.  I had this horrible taste in my mouth.  Beer.  Oh - Yeah  -  I remember some of last night now.  I had no idea how or when I got home.  I had no idea how I was going to make it to work, or why.  Why bother?  I hated my life.  Why do I even bother continuing this pathetic sham of a life?  I struggled to open my eyes as I spiraled down the whirlpool of self-pity.  They were much heavier than I had anticipated.  Everything was a painful, bluish, white blur.  As my eyes adjusted and began to focus, I saw purple plastic beads hanging from the hook on the bathroom door. 120

Wait . . . 121

I remember . . . 122

Yeah, Tuesday night, that’s right-  123

-the party- 124

-and Pearly White- 125

-and another party next Tuesday night;  and . . .  126

Wait. 127

What day is it?  128

I tried really hard to think. 129

I couldn’t. 130

I had to. 131

Think.   132

Noooooo.   133

It’s only Thursday.134