Tom there had been only one ambition. Nothing beat playing a piano for a living. Tom would assure people of this, anybody that was still around at the magical time – say three in the morning – when the martini took over and Tom quit speaking for himself. He would stop playing, pour himself straight up on to a barstool and graze on olives and punjabi mix until his tongue felt like a tramp's sock during a downpour. "It's, like, pure," he would burble, pointing at invisibles in the air between him and his audience and fixing them with an earnest stare. The sort of look that says its owner knows… OK? He just fucking knows.
On the night in question, Tom still had some semblance of balance left, having arrived late for work and therefore being two rounds light on his normal consumption. Not that he was what you might call straight. He still had to expend a considerable effort windmilling his arms and breathing deeply so as not to smack his teeth on the bar as he'd done that time in Chicago when a combination of whisky sours and a pair of Quaaludes had sent him carpetwards with a hard-on and a smile but no real consciousness to speak of. When the TV above the bar showed silent news footage of distraught fans gathering at Graceland to pay tribute to their lost idol he was capable of figuring out what had happened. "The King is dead, baby," he slurred, raising a glass. He took a sip and then pushed the glass away. He needed to maintain a modicum of muscle-control tonight; it was Thursday and that meant Elise would be dropping by on her way home from her shift at the Neon Melon . Tom liked Elise, in fact he loved her almost as much as he did Jim Beam and Lord Buckley, which – for an emotional retard like Tom – was tantamount to obsession.
"Knock me your lobes, daddy-o," he said to Terry behind the bar, a man who ran out of the very little creativity he possessed thinking up names for happyhour cocktails. "Frilly Maiden", "Velvet Sunrise", "Fruit Sunstorm"… after that he was spent.
"You talk like a dick, Tom," Terry commented, whipping a dank towel at the bar as if it had been misbehaving.
"And you have no jive."
"But plenty of liquor so I'm sure you'll bring yourself to forgive me."
"You may well be right. What time is it?"
"She'll be here soon enough."
Tom smiled. That Terry was one smug son of a bitch.
He took the brave step of slipping off the barstool and taking himself to a window booth, a journey so long and perilous for Tom by this stage of the evening that he felt entitled to call it a goddamn quest. He was an inebriated Frodo Baggins heading to the leatherette and formica landscape of Boothor… This idea gave him the giggles about halfway across the shiny carpet and he had to grab hold of a particularly rubbery rubber plant in order to steady himself.
"You cool?" Terry asked, only too aware of how difficult Tom was likely finding the journey.
Tom waved, signalling that all was fine, before letting go of the plant and risking a few more steps toward the window.
Outside, Ninth and Hennepin was taking a beating from the rain. Tom pressed his nose against the glass and imagined sailing paper yachts along the gutter, floating the hell out of there. A man has to dream. The neon of the Triangle Pool Hall buzzed like a trapped bluebottle, winking in and out as if tired. Fat Eugene, the owner, was sheltering under the smudged green awning, pushing cotton-candy balls of cigar smoke into the wet air to be smashed apart by the raindrops.
"When you gonna quit moonin' over her, for Christ's sake?"
"Just as soon as she sees sense and gives in, Terry."
"I've as much chance of getting a BJ from Barbara Streisand."
Tom, baffled at the best of times, was utterly confused by the notion of this. "Would you want to?"
Terry, still making a pretence of cleaning, nodded. "Who wouldn't?"
Tom guessed there was little to be said to this without causing
On the night in question, Tom still had some semblance of balance left, having arrived late for work and therefore being two rounds light on his normal consumption. Not that he was what you might call straight. He still had to expend a considerable effort windmilling his arms and breathing deeply so as not to smack his teeth on the bar as he'd done that time in Chicago when a combination of whisky sours and a pair of Quaaludes had sent him carpetwards with a hard-on and a smile but no real consciousness to speak of. When the TV above the bar showed silent news footage of distraught fans gathering at Graceland to pay tribute to their lost idol he was capable of figuring out what had happened. "The King is dead, baby," he slurred, raising a glass. He took a sip and then pushed the glass away. He needed to maintain a modicum of muscle-control tonight; it was Thursday and that meant Elise would be dropping by on her way home from her shift at the Neon Melon . Tom liked Elise, in fact he loved her almost as much as he did Jim Beam and Lord Buckley, which – for an emotional retard like Tom – was tantamount to obsession.
"Knock me your lobes, daddy-o," he said to Terry behind the bar, a man who ran out of the very little creativity he possessed thinking up names for happyhour cocktails. "Frilly Maiden", "Velvet Sunrise", "Fruit Sunstorm"… after that he was spent.
"You talk like a dick, Tom," Terry commented, whipping a dank towel at the bar as if it had been misbehaving.
"And you have no jive."
"But plenty of liquor so I'm sure you'll bring yourself to forgive me."
"You may well be right. What time is it?"
"She'll be here soon enough."
Tom smiled. That Terry was one smug son of a bitch.
He took the brave step of slipping off the barstool and taking himself to a window booth, a journey so long and perilous for Tom by this stage of the evening that he felt entitled to call it a goddamn quest. He was an inebriated Frodo Baggins heading to the leatherette and formica landscape of Boothor… This idea gave him the giggles about halfway across the shiny carpet and he had to grab hold of a particularly rubbery rubber plant in order to steady himself.
"You cool?" Terry asked, only too aware of how difficult Tom was likely finding the journey.
Tom waved, signalling that all was fine, before letting go of the plant and risking a few more steps toward the window.
Outside, Ninth and Hennepin was taking a beating from the rain. Tom pressed his nose against the glass and imagined sailing paper yachts along the gutter, floating the hell out of there. A man has to dream. The neon of the Triangle Pool Hall buzzed like a trapped bluebottle, winking in and out as if tired. Fat Eugene, the owner, was sheltering under the smudged green awning, pushing cotton-candy balls of cigar smoke into the wet air to be smashed apart by the raindrops.
"When you gonna quit moonin' over her, for Christ's sake?"
"Just as soon as she sees sense and gives in, Terry."
"I've as much chance of getting a BJ from Barbara Streisand."
Tom, baffled at the best of times, was utterly confused by the notion of this. "Would you want to?"
Terry, still making a pretence of cleaning, nodded. "Who wouldn't?"
Tom guessed there was little to be said to this without causing
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