Sunday, July 13, 2008

Micro Story

NOTE: Just a little something for a bright, shiny Sunday morning. As usual, I apologize in advance if this is pretentious and/or excruciating. Feel free to disregard.

Waiting With A Tiki Drink

The bar was covered in bamboo and tribal masks and it smelled like a bottle of rum fucked a fruit basket in a pool of vomit. Darryl ordered something called a "Blue Lagoon," which was the color of Windex and tasted like a poorly-assembled margarita. He sipped his drink slowly, keeping it near his chin, and he swirled the straw around inside the glass when it was not in use. Awkward, this, standing in the corner, near a large, purple-lit tank full of none-too-energetic goldfish. Where was everyone... why did he ALWAYS have to be so punctual... and overdressed? His tie felt like the hand of a madman, strangling him in an alley behind a seedy bar. It occurred to him that he was about halfway to that scenario becoming a reality, at least as far as location was concerned, so he decided to focus on something else. Harry's Hula Hut was filling up with talking, smiling, strangers wearing too much make-up and cologne. They ran around him like a river in which he was an uncomfortable rock.

A group of women... girls, more accurately... walked by and looked at Darryl and looked down at the blue, practically-glowing beverage clutched in his hand, and they walked on, politely waiting until they at least THOUGHT they were out of earshot to laugh. He should have ordered a beer. He took another sip, swirling again with the straw, feeling as if someone had slipped on him a too-tight sweatshirt while he was distracted by the listless fish, making him now all sweaty and itchy and generally unpleasent.

Eventually, his drink was gone, finished, dead and buried. Just a hollow sucking sound through the straw. Only the ice and garnish remained, and so he crunched at the cubes and gnawed on the wedge of lime and watched the door, wondering if he should get another drink, get a cab home, get the phone number of the one girl from that group that didn't appear to be laughing as hard as the others (she seemed nice; probably a great kisser).

Darryl stood there in the corner, his mouth freezing cold, his tongue stained blue, the awkwardness cuddling up next to him, it's arms around his waist like a girl looking for a slow dance. He took another look around the room, at the tacky decor and the oozing, bad taste of irony. He looked at all the people and wondered what they saw in this place. In each other, for that matter. And then there was a tap on his shoulder. He turned, almost too eager. And he smiled.

The night overflowed with Tiki drinks and laughter as he blended in nicely, a river rock unmoored and caught up in the current of a seedy bar covered in bamboo and tribal masks.

4 Comments:

Blogger Lady Snark said...

Hey, I like your micro-stories! And because they're micro, I'll actually read them (I generally hate "short stories" but if they're really-really short and also funny, I like them).

Also, this sounds disturbingly familiar. Almost like I've lived it before.

(This is Phoenix by the way.)

8:47 AM  
Blogger Clinton said...

Snark (Phoenix)... Thanks! Yeah, I'm not a fan of the short story usually either; too long and with little pay off. That's why the micro story idea appeals to me... there's little pay off there either, but at least you didn't waste an hour or two of your life.

8:58 AM  
Anonymous Fred Farnsworth said...

The bar was covered in bamboo and tribal masks and it smelled like a bottle of rum fucked a fruit basket in a pool of vomit. Darryl ordered something called a "Blue Lagoon," which was the color of Windex and tasted like a poorly-assembled margarita. He sipped his drink slowly, keeping it near his chin, and he swirled the straw around inside the glass when it was not in use.

2:48 AM  
Blogger Clinton said...

Fred... Yes, those are the first three sentances of what I wrote.

7:32 AM  

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