Without a care for the common cold, this wiry protagonist made his way to Betty’s for an evening with some tail tale on its end. “Mickey you old shithead, over here,” Ah, his loving din, the clank and rattle of bottles, stools, cue balls and buds, all pressed against its neon frame and woodwork warmth.
He made his way to Larry, a Pollock from the south and wrapped his back, spiking his voice midspeak. “Mickey you dick, I told them to never let your ass back in here.”
“Well that just shows ya how much they care what you say,” Mickey said staggering sideways through the crowd. Larry and some Dutch looking beard sat laughing on shaking stools as the wiry one holds up two fingers; Understood, of course, by the thirty-six year old cock tease he’d promised the moon to twice; Brenda, divorcee, moderate motorcycle enthusiast, Steelers fan, everything prick like this could want. She set two beers in front of him, same brand, one light and one not, then handed him a small shaker of salt from under the bar. He eyed her dryly for a moment while she faded slowly into a smile, to which he pulled out a twenty and set it on the bar. It was for her, she had to take it and learned not to argue. “Thank you, Mickey”
“That’s what I come here for.” It somehow managed to stay sweet even after dozens of times. Mickey lightly tapped the salt into his beer, squinting through the wrinkles around his eyes. He looked old, certainly older than forty eight, which is what the math turned up. People had guessed sixty, but then again, people had also spit out teeth.
“So what do you say, Paris in a week,” he said knowing the answer. Brenda smiled warmly again, formulating her next witty rejection.
“Sure Mickey, can I bring my husband?”
“Hell I don’t care, I got a suitcase that should hold him.”
Brenda shook her head, only half concealing a smile, “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, what am I going to do with you?” walking off to tend to another thirsty patron before he could list off the great many ideas he had.
The jukebox rang with the same tinny, southern fried rock that he’d grown up with. The wandering solo entering its second minute took him through a maze of memories; cars, the women in them, hammer swinging and screw shooting on factory lines, and of course his current backdrop. The cars had broken down, the women came but mostly went, arthritis took his hammer and the factory stood vacant. None of it lasted, but this, his loving din. The clank and rattle of bottles, stools, cue balls and buds, all pressed against its neon frame and woodwork warmth. Mickey was a very lucky man.
Zachary Moll lives in Ohio with his son, where he pursues his dreams at the speed of sit. The 22 year old has been featured in several on-line and print journals for both his poetry and photographic art, and has shared the stage with many great modern poets. www.myspace.com/zacharymollpoetry
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