Poses

The barmaid was pretty, but she was distant. She gets a hundred guys, maybe a thousand, hitting on her, he thought. Of course she’s fucking distant. He was getting a little worried about his memory. Was she here earlier? He remembered her from about an hour ago, but had she been there before that? He sat up a little straighter. All these poses.

Someone lurched into him and he nearly slipped his drink. He span round to confront them, his flip-flops nearly falling off his feet, but couldn’t spot who it was. Everyone was fucking drunk. He turned back to the bar and downed his glass in a long swallow. I would slam their fucking ass to the floor if I knew who they were.

“Same again, Josh?” she asked.

“Please,” he said. She poured out a measure of Jamseson and added some coke. He clutched it like a child reaching for the breast and took a sip. It tasted like dull fire on his tongue. He looked around, trying to spot everyone who was dressed better than he was. There’s never been such grave a matter, he thought. He swilled the drink around. Maybe I should actually do some work. But what work? The novel wasn’t going well. No matter how he tried, the third chapter just wasn’t working. He couldn’t get a grip on the characters; couldn’t get a coherent plot together to carry it through to that elusive third act. He was aiming for something unique, something precious, but damn, post-dramatic…it sounds like post-traumatic for a reason.

He finished his drink and ordered another. The barmaid glittered past him and poured out another whiskey. I would do terrible things to her, he thought. She plonked the drink in front of him and he downed it. His legs were feeling unsteady. He wished he could remember who the barmaid was and when she’d started working, but he couldn’t. Nothing was together anymore. He was a thousand miles from his own body. He ordered another drink, a double shot of whiskey, just as the barmaid was rushing past.

She gave him an odd look, but gave him the drink. “That’s your last.”

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Definitely your last.”

He downed it, letting the firey tendrils split his throat in two.

“Now get the fuck out.” She had her arms crossed, contempt in her eyes. “Goddamn drunk.”

“Same again, please,” he said. A hand fell on his shoulder.

“I think you’ve had enough, friend.” A gorilla of a man started pulling Josh off his stool towards the door. He grabbed his glass and tried to drain the last dregs, but the glass left his fingers and shattered.

The ape-man shoved him out. Somehow he kept his footing. He looked around. Fifth avenue. Drunk at five in the afternoon. And I’m in fucking flip-flops.