Sunday, January 15, 2017

Pre-Show Announcement

Staring at the St-Germain, wondering what I'm doing here. Stuffed between a dozen barstools, six feet from a fat couple on their second round. But they're sipping cocktails and I'm downing Schlitz, and we're all paying these tourist prices. So you tell me: Who's less than?

I just paid seventy dollars American to sit on a stool for three hours. Not this one, the one upstairs, in the city's eponymous theatre for the Bard. Hard-pressed to find too many local actors on that stage though. The yokels in the seats, they don't care about credits, they care about the cities, and the city they care about is the one in New York. They're going to like them no matter what. They can't see the lack of talent like a talented person. Someday I'd like to work there. There were other seats, better ones. I decided to save that money, spend it on drinks, judging people. Half of the women are in fur coats, half the men in caps, the children begging for sugary nuts and overpriced plush toys in between texts, like swimmers coming up for oxygen.

"Know what you want?" I'm being pressured for a second drink. I check my watch, an hour left. The couple to my right excuse themselves to continue their various healthy habits outside. They'll be back, smelling of cheap tobacco and cold air. I say I need a minute. I don't need anymore time than what I've got. I'm not even sure what to do with what I have. I flip the menu over and order the priciest house cocktail and I don't look at what's inside.

There's a movie on, some stupid thing about a couple and the frat next door. The boys are impossibly ripped, their shirts impeccably tailored, the wife incredibly beautiful, the husband a fat old boor. It is a story that could only be told in a world created only by the people in this one. It screams there, vulgarity on vulgarity, as I drink my drink. It doesn't taste very good, but damn is it pretty.

Showtime. I get my check, leave my tip, case the joint. I leave more than I should but sometimes I'm too generous. As I get up I take a piece of chewing gum from my pocket, can't let those yokels know how close I am. And when my nose catches a whiff of my fingers it smells like cinnamon and asshole. The cinnamon's from my gum. The other I'm not so sure.

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