Patton Lee Beaugus | December 21, 2010 4:45pm
What made me believe the PartyMob could possibly have moved me into some alternate reality where Santa was as real as President Glenn Beck?
When I came through the backdoor into Rudy's, I was glad to see it looked crummy enought to be my reality. The same bunch of barflies. The same duck-tape decor. I rushed out the front onto 9th Avenue and into a raging snowstorm. But I wasn't going back into that 'nexus of improbablity'. I waved at the Door Pig, but he didn't wave back. I guess he had no Christmas spirit.It was starting to snow a little more heavily as I stumbled south on 9th. It looked a lot like the real 9th, with no flying horses. Although come to think of it, as I stumbled out the door in a big, big hurry, the Pig out in front might have given me a dirty look. Na-aaah.
I must have been somewhat the worse for beer and brandy, which must have been why I kept slipping and falling. But I heroically overcame adversity, a headwind, and the blinding snow and trudged the six blocks down to the Holland Bar, happy to have escaped. But I couldn’t think straight. I mean, even more not straight than usual, even when I wasn't straight, or did I mean when I wasn't straight. Anyway, I couldn't think straight.
I ordered a brandy with the emergency ten I kept in my shoe for like... uh emergencies. And I think this qualified. I had no money until my social security check came in two weeks, but I was sure this qualified as an emergency. And it was Christmas Eve, wasn't it? I was proud of myself to be so good at rationalizing the purchase. After all, I hadn't used up my food stamps, yet. I might still be able to trade cans of beefaroni for beers.
The tenner wasn't so easy to get out. It took a lot of concentration because my shoes and socks were wet and the wet ten got caught in one of the holes in my we sock. But I heroically concentrated through it.
Steve, the bartender, came down and wished me a Merry Christmas, looking at the bar to see if I'd put some money there. He saw my wet ten-spot, and smiled sarcastically, if a person can smile sarcastically. He served my drink in a mostly clean double shot glass. It was nowhere near as good as the Courvoisier VSOP Louie was pouring so freely into giant snifters.
Sitting at the Holland bar were a few working guys and a couple of eighty year old hookers, named Brittany and Lady CaCa, who I used to chat up to see if they'd spring for a drink. Tonight, as the clock approached midnight and Christmas Day, I just waved and yelled "Merry Christmas." The women were not in the same universe as Molly or D’Oliya. Not in the same reality. What reality? What was reality?
I couldn’t think straight.
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The Holland juke was playing 'The Christmas Song'. I listened to Nat King Cole singing the lyrics and wondered how the Partymob would have perverted it? Beer nuts roasting on an open fire? Jack Frost ripping off your pantyhose? |
I couldn’t think straight. Good thing I didn't have to get any more cash outta my ATM shoe!
What made me believe for a moment that what they were doing was real in my world? I mean it could be real on some string dimension somewhere. But it wasn't real in my Hell's Kitchen.
Although… Molly seemed damn real to me, as were her thigh pressing up against mine. And the times my elbow accidentally... What if it was all real? What if it was? In my reality of beers and blogging. It sure seemed real when I was in it. It must be real. As real as my life anyway.
Could I let the PartyMob take down Santa without trying to stop it? If they did the dirty deed tonight on Christmas Eve, did I want to miss it?
Was this the chance I always fantasized about, being a real bad guy? Evil? Would I ever get another chance like this? No, this was it. Evil now. Or evil never.
What would Christmas be like with the PartyMob in charge? Could it be any worse than shopping season or than Lady GaGa cutting a Christmas album with duets with 50cent, Johnny Mathis, and Jeff Foxworthy?
What would it be like if like they said, a twelve day pagan party? Saturdaynightanalia? Would that be so bad? I mean, wasn't that my dream after winning the lottery?
What if I went back to Rudy’s? What if I got weed-wacked by HiTone? Or got sent to the psycho ward? What if the Pig out in front wouldn't let me in? What was I thinking?
I couldn’t think straight.
What if D’Oliya decided to tie me up, and punish me for leaving, punish me with her velvet whip, making me lick the brandy...?
What if Molly actually liked me? No, even in an alternate reality, neither could be reality. Or could they? What was impossible this morning might be possible on this particular Christmas Eve in some stringy theory reality somewhere. If it was, I was sure I wanted to be in that reality. But...
I couldn’t think straight.
Why were the Buddabings PartyMob so sure of themselves?
I wanted to look up Stringy Theory on Wikipedia but the Holland Bar didn’t give WiFi. So I was stuck with more whys than fies.
I couldn’t think straight.
Did I believe all this enough to help with it? Or to stop it? Did I want to help Molly with it? I didn’t know.
Why was I 'The Guy'? Was I needed? Why? I was a guy nobody needed. Why them? Why me? Had I been set up the whole time since somebody played 'Santa Baby'? Was it Molly?
I couldn’t think straight.
What was right? Would make a difference if the Easter bunny was the Easter gerbil? Especially when he didn't exist in my existence? That was the question. Was it right?
I couldn’t think straight. But straight enough to use my tongue to lick out the last layer from inside the shot glass. This proved to me that I wasn't as drunk as I was, and could drink another drink.
But I knew another cheap peach brandy in a shot glass at the Holland wouldn't help, even if I had enough to pay for it, which I didn't. Of course, if I wasn't in my reality, why should I tip the Steve who wasn't my Steve? I tipped him anyway. The rest of the tenner. Maybe that would put me on a new string in stringy theory and I'd walk out the door into the Virgin Islands, inhabited by young blonde virgins who looked like..
What did Molly mouth at me when she saw me sneaking out? Was it really "Come back?"
Did she expect me back? Did she need me to come back?
I had to know. I had to. All of it, not just the Molly thing, although that might have been the tipping point.
I decided it didn't matter if it was really real or not. It didn't matter if I was a good guy or a bad guy. I had to know.
Besides I didn't have the money for a Christmas Eve nightcap. I looked up and the octogenicaran hookers were making out and Lady CaCa's hand had disappeared down Britany's.... I shuddered.
I had to leave, and my brandy soaked brain calculated I could count on Louie to lay another snifter-full on me — of the good stuff.
So I trudged back up 9th Avenue thru the heavily blowing snow. The storm was picking up and blowing into my face. Damn, it was blowing in my face when I walked here. It was blowing so hard, after the third time I fell down, I almost turned back, but I finally made the six blocks.
The Pig doorman bouncer waved me in, only for me to find Rudy‘s bar was full of yuppie scum, metrosexuals, and others of that ilk.
Merry Christmas. Ho-Ho-Ho!
I swung my elbows and my computer bag and pushed my way through the wall-to-wall yuppies. It was almost tougher than trudging through the snow. I think if I wasn't all wet, and none of them wanted to look like they'd spilled beer down their fronts or backs they reluctantly let me through.
I opened the back door and looked out into the forest glade, protected from the wind by some their un-snow globe.
I wondered if I still wasn't thinking straight.
