The Feet of God

53 - LOOKIN’ FOR A LITTLE FUN

We finally made it to The Moose Knuckle.  The dudes and me staked out a table with a nice view of the mostly empty bar, and I ordered our first round.

I knocked back the shot of Old Methuselah and shook my head as the single malt scotch whisky burned a trail of fire down my gullet.  My shoulders shivered in pleasure and a long “Argghhh” escaped my lips in pure satisfaction.  I opened my eyes to find four boys struggling to keep their shots down, and making the funniest faces I’d seen in a long time.  They was all bent over with watery bloodshot eyes.

I shared some fatherly advice, “The first one goes down like cat piss and fertilizer, but the next one will go down like liquid rubies.  Trust me.”  I smiled.

I gotta hand it to the dudes, they raised their empty glasses for more.  Our waitress, Carmella, brought fresh shots all around.  The dudes still showed a trace of trepidation, but I encouraged them with a toast, “To the ladies, men.”

The boys bravely followed my lead and we clinked glasses and slammed back our whiskies.  This time it went down a lot easier (at least judging from their less overtly negative reactions).  Three shots later, and we was laughin’ at nothin’, swappin’ lies, and in general havin’ a high ol’ time.

The bar had just a few old regulars from what I could determine, but it wasn’t too long before three young chicks entered unescorted.  They sat at a table directly across from us, and with their short skirts they looked to be open for business.  Each one had pouty lips painted bright red, and nails polished in what looked like glitter, and they was dowsed in more cologne than you’d expect when the French Navy’s in town.  Aside from the fact they was in a group, the only problem from my perspective was they appeared like jailbait.

The dudes went on high yellow alert.  While the boys kicked each other under the table and snorted their crude approvals and spoke to each other in a code I did not speak, I tried to catch the drift of the girls’ conversation….

“I’m telling you, Darlene, if it’s like good for the goose, you know, you should get some too.  He can’t treat you that way, like you gave up everything to be with him and all, and now you sit at home with the babies while he’s, like, out with his friends all the time.”

Carmella approached the table where the three young ladies sat, “Can I see some ID?”  Once that little performance was out of the way the girls asked Carmella for three dirty gin martinis.

The one named Darlene spoke up, “Well, like sure, I know you’re right.  All he ever cares about is that damned truck of his, and NASCAR, and hunting with his stupid brother.”  She rolled her eyes in disgust.  “Like, he expects me to clean and cook some nasty thing he’s shot dead or ran over and killed on the road.”  She folded her arms, “And you know what else he always expects?  Hmmph!  I’m gonna have some fun for myself, for once.”

I leaned into our table to warn the dudes, “These babes are out fishing without a license.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the game warden showed up soon, if you catch my meaning.”  I faced four faces that was entirely clueless.

Suddenly everyone’s eyes was drawn to six new arrivals standing in the doorway.  Four large middle-aged females, plus two guys, entered the bar.  The taller, rangier dude seemed to be by himself, and he headed over to the bar alone.  Meanwhile, the four blonde gals with their wavy-haired male friend settled in at a table in the corner opposite us.  Unlike the young chicks at the other table next to us, these was real grownup women.  They all had big hair, blouses filled to a bountiful capacity, and comfortable form-fitting jeans on.  They obviously hadn’t bought into any of the fashion sense that tells a woman she ain’t no woman unless she’s the size of a starving refugee.  These gals exuded fun.  And by all appearances, it looked as if they was hellbent on having some, too.

The younger babes at the other table sniffed and whispered among themselves, so I couldn’t make out what they was saying exactly, but I detected a certain cattiness in their tone.  My attention wandered around the rest of the room, and I noticed several guys standing at the bar watching a basketball game on a TV monitor with the volume off.  At the far end of the bar sat a really huge and unattractive woman in a red dress, with numerous tattoos covering her arms and legs, nursing a cocktail and smoking a cigarette.  (The legality of smoking in the bar was questionable, I thought, but so was a lot of other things for that matter.)  As I looked at her a dude nudged me, “That’s Nancy.  She’s a swamp donkey.”

“That bad?” I asked.

“Guess it depends.  She’ll wait to pick up guys too drunk to defend themselves, and then she takes ‘em home for the ol’ in-and-out.”  He mocked and punched one of the other dudes, “Ain’t that right, bra’?”

The other dude punched him back even harder, “Fuckkk youuu.”

While the two dudes engaged in a mutual stare down, I noticed Carmella approach the table where the party of five was seated.  “Hello, ladies.  You too, Marvin.  What’ll y’all be having?”

The guy named Marvin beamed and clapped his hands.  “Let’s do a round of Black Dogs.”

One of the women pointed a finger at him, “Not this time, Marvin.  You had more than a dozen Black Dog bourbons last week, and the girls and I had to keep stopping the car while you blew chunks all over the place.  It took me two whole days to clean up the upholstery and get rid of the odor.  You’re sticking to beer.”

Another female added her two cents, “We girls just wanna have some fun tonight, Marvin, and not nurse you along.”  She turned and smiled at Carmela, “We’ll have five Coronas, please.  No limes.  And Marvin’s buying.”  That was the last I heard of the group’s conversation since the bartender turned up the music real loud.

I noticed the bartender had also just set out baskets of microwaved popcorn.  As a legitimate cash-paying customer of this fine establishment, I got up and walked over to grab me a couple’a baskets for our table’s consumption.  As I approached the bar, the tall rangy guy who’d entered the place the same time as Marvin and his four gal pals nodded at me without exchanging a word.  I nodded back.  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but the aloof stranger seemed more like some squinty-eyed cowboy or bounty hunter rather than a local clod buster.  Wouldn’t be surprised if he was packin’ heat somewhere under that coat of his.  In any case, I returned to our little table, and no sooner did I set the baskets down than the dudes tore into the popcorn like starved wolverines.

You couldn’t really say the joint was jumping, but I sensed things was definitely coming to life at The Moose Knuckle bar.