Today’s first Guest Blogger is Greg Bardsley of
The Virtual Dive Bar is getting mighty crowded. It’s shoulder-to-shoulder badass. The guy from St. Louis busts a long neck over the Irishman. An arm-wrestling contest turns into a wrestling match. Some big dude in a poncho loses balance, backpedals and clears out a table of Buds, starts a brawl no one seems to care about. Someone uses a forearm to wipe vomit off the bar. Steel God uses his pinkie to collar Smith’s T-shirt, yanks him off his bar stool. “Let’s get some air.” Smith nods, tries to shake his mind clear. They step out, squint west – the sun is setting, rods of yellow shooting through the dust. Bikers are everywhere. From a half-dozen different points they can hear hard men laughing, glass breaking. Engines revving. “At what point does the city swallow some pride, call the county boys for help and start breaking this up?” Smith shakes his head. “They’ve set up a perimeter. They’ll wait us out.” “Gonna be a long wait.” Smith uses his chin to point to the road. “Check it out.” Out of the dust emerges a morbidly obese man puttering on a tiny scooter. The guy is giggling to himself, his tits shaking. He’s a sight -- Bozo the Clown hair, stained cotton sweats and slippers with dingle berries. Steel God grumbles. “Freak show.” Smith fights off a laugh. “I know that guy.” Next out of the dust is tan man in a Speedo, buck-knife holstered to his leg. Standing up on a Yellow Yamaha dirt bike. God says, “California?” Smith nods, and they laugh. More of the gang emerges from the dust. Corporate types, punk teens, some bearded dude with dark shades and a bushy head of hair. An older chick in a pantsuit with some egghead in a yoga shirt hugging from behind. They pull up to this dusty joint across the street. Sign says, Chimichangas at Sunset. On the porch, an enormous, heavily tattooed man is lounging in a kiddie pool, lifts a can of Modelo into the air. God says, “A lot of hair on that guy.” “It’s why they call him Cujo.” “Where’s he from?” “Black Hole.” “Black Hole?” “Well, Oakland.” The Speedo guy parks his Yamaha, hops off and heaves his buck knife at the front door. Knife sinks into the wood with a thwack. God says, “Am I supposed to be impressed?” Bozo the Clown is finger-waving at God, laughing to himself, his eyes turning to slits. “Hello there, Mister Steeeeeel Gaaaaaawd.” More giggling. “Mind if I use your …” He waits extra long. “… potty?” Steel God pulls his head back, frowns. “That’s an odd collection.” Smith laughs to himself. “Um, yeah.” “They go by a name?” “Skull Patrol.” “As in, sick in the skull?” Smith bites his lip. “Well, there’s that, yeah. And Skull Patrol, it’s a section in the Black Hole. Right there in the craziest part, the south end zone.” Steel God nods. Smith starts to cross the street. “C’mon.” Long story short, Smith talks God into not trying a chimichanga. And hell, who’s hungry when the bushy-headed dude is sitting at the bar gnawing on a roasted rat on a stick? Smith nods to the bartender, and two ice-cold Tecates come flying. They snatch ‘em out of the air, look around. Cujo has a boom box blasting Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog”. Everyone joins in when the song gets to “Now you’re messing with a son of a bitch.” Afterward, the bartender sidearms another Tecate to Smith, asks, “You the guy who wrote Hogdoggin'?” A nod. “You’re wanted in the basement.” “Basement?” God and Smith exchange glances. Smith says, “You obviously haven’t read Hogdoggin’ yet.” “You kidding me?” Bartender throws a Tecate to someone across the room. “That book kept me up all night. Got better and better.” Smith looks around. “Who’s down there?” Bartender shoots Smith a glance, tries to act like it’s no big deal. “Larry.” And then, “He’s got something for you.” “Ah, fuck.” God says, “Dude in the Speedo?” Smith is annoyed. “Yeah, Crazy Larry.” Looks around again, sighs hard. “Yeah, c’mon, let’s get this over with.” The basement is pitch black, except for the red glow of Larry’s tobacco pipe. God says, “What kinda freak sits alone in the--” “Watch it with this guy.” Every time the ember glows, they take a few steps closer. Eventually, they get so close, they can hear the high-pitched squeals coming from Larry’s iPod. And it’s trippy shit - Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “The Witchdoctor.” Finally the Chipmunks are paused, and a clean smart voice says, “Hogdoggin’” “Yeah?” The ember fades. “I enjoyed it …immensely.” Smith can’t see shit. He’s waiting for something bad to happen. “I don’t like my characters clean,” the voice says. “I like them disturbed and twisted. … As you can imagine.” “Okay.” “And I like a story that grabs you by the windpipe. A story that doesn’t worry about offending.” Smith is uneasy. “Got it.” “Neil?” Long silence. “Yes, Larry?” The ember glows and fades. “Your book made me smell bacon.” Awkward silence in the pitch black. Finally, Smith says, “Okay, well, it’s getting late.” “Not yet.” Out of the darkness comes a dog-eared copy of Hogdoggin’. Nails Smith square in the chest. “Sign that for me.” After a while, he adds, “Doing so would please me.” “And then we gotta get back to our-” A pen hits Smith in the throat. “Sign it, ‘To Larry, with deep love and tender admiration.’ Then include your address and phone number.” Long silence. “I’d like to visit.” Smith starts scribbling. God leans in, whispers. “You crazy?” Smith says to Larry, “It’s so dark I can’t see my writing. This is gonna be indecipherable.” The red ember glows. Finally, Larry exhales, says, “And that’s just the way I like it.”
Thumping through the Bar’s Floor: Nazareth, “Hair of the Dog”.
Crazy Larry is in the building! Also, will someone please put locks on all the toilet tanks?
Posted by: Keith Rawson | May 22, 2009 at 01:00 PM