Birmingham

By Reggie Woods

            -I’m good, gone and fucked now, and I don’t just mean my state of inebriation. Five years ago I was saying to myself, “Five years from now I don’t wanna be doing the same thing,” and here it is and not a goddamn thing has changed. Matthew Skrote wasn’t in the habit of talking to dogs (unlike most others in the South) but something about the alcohol, or the array of pills, or the combination of the two but now the act was quite comforting.

            Matt had considered his father Neil a prick for most of his life. Neil had left him and his brother and mother, Matt’s grandmother, all of them high and dry when Matt was merely twelve. Neil had not embarked on any new life of adventure, nor had he fled the great black hole of Birmingham, he had simply traded in his first wife for one slightly younger, skinnier, and prettier. No one in his family approved of this so Neil simply stopped calling, stopped taking the kids for the weekend, stopped coming to Birthday’s. He just moved on but not before he had passed on to Matt his charm, slight homophobia and racism, southern accent, overwhelming since of pride, hypocrisy, bottling of any and all emotions, and an ability to play the guitar. And for all the hatred Matt held for his father bottled inside him for well over a decade, Matt’s girlfriend Sherri hated Neil more. Sherri knew the nights she lied awake next to a passed out drunk Matt, post-fucking, without an, “I love you,” or a spooning or even a, “did you come?” that Matt was that way because of Neil. She loved him none-the-less, or felt for him in a way she had never felt for anyone else be it love or not.

            So Matt enjoyed telling this dog, whoever’s it was, all of these things he had been wanting for years to say but could never bring himself to utter them aloud. That’s what music was for, supplanting those emotions he couldn’t bear to face. He could now because this dog couldn’t understand him and therefore wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t see his exposure of weakness, would only sit there and be happy for the attention. Dogs are the opposite of people in that regard, they don’t want to say a damn word and are happy to simply listen.

He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t the life of the party. Just then he found himself sitting alone on a tattered red couch with a dog who smelt as if it had rolled in its own feces. He thought of the number three and surveyed the room failing to find beauty in anything save the music he could hear muffled through the walls. It was late enough to know there were few remaining, all sitting in the room from which the music radiated, today’s opium den. He knew no one was speaking, merely passing the pipe, joint, bong, or hooka hose one to another. That night he just couldn’t handle it. The dog yawned and lay his head on Matt’s lap. Stroking him Matt muttered, -Something’s gotta change. Maybe I should ask Sherri to marry me. We’ve been together for a decade, I guess I owe it to her. I swear dog, five years from now if I’m still working these shitty jobs, still doing this shit, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

*          *          *          *          *

            Steel laden Red Mountain wasn’t impressive and neither was the humongous statue of the Roman god Vulcan atop it. Looking in the other direction, downtown, the four and a half “skyscrapers” left something to be desired as well. Shawna Awan figured that the people would be similar enough wherever she went, and maybe in another city she would have a better view and the passerby’s wouldn’t give her a second look for being brown.

            She was tending bar at the Upside-down Plaza, a haunt for all the disillusioned outcasts of Birmingham. In the heart of Southside, the Plaza (as it was lovingly called by its frequenters) lied beneath Five-Points infamous Pickwick Hotel. A graffiti walled cave with a floor soaked in booze, piss, and blood it took a special type to feel at home in this hole. For all the people who wanted to escape Birmingham but couldn’t manage to run beyond it’s limits, going underneath the city was the next best thing.

            No one was really sure where her knack for handling bottles came from, especially Shawna herself. The rest of the Plaza’s bartenders were men varying in age and heftiness who all shared the quality of a dirty appearance and at least a bend towards alcoholism. These men had pride in their high tolerances and most of their tales of adventures around the ole U.S. of A. centered around the fact that their tolerance had fucked them again. In New Mexico there still lay a car at the bottom of an unnamed canyon that found its way there by way of Kipper and Jagermeister. So the young and exotic Shawna was a welcome addition and her bottle theatrics merely icing on the cake.

            The ratio of clients at the Plaza who finished their undergraduate degree versus the ones who had dropped out was about half and half, but the percentage making under thirty thousand a year was about ninety-eight, which comforted the cave dwellers, especially Shawna. That night an erratic guest, the tenebrous Stephen, took residence at one of the bars two outer corners and smiled kindly from under hat bill at his old friend Shawna. –Newcastle?

            -And none of your tricks, just gets it all foamy. He smiled and gave a friendly chuckle, as she gave him a familiarly stern look. She could count on Stephen not to rise from his stool until he intended to leave, and for that ungodly polite conversation that serves no purpose but a faint nostalgia of what once was and will obviously never be again, no matter how bad any one might want it. Yet it was always pleasant, and with Stephen sincere, devoid of those false hopes which many people fall prey to with these chats. The rest of the customers kept Stephen’s company from falling into awkwardness, so that Shawna could actually smile upon his arrival. It was this quality that kept people coming to the Plaza, an entrance into Hades where everyone ran into the ghosts of their past and found them unchanged, just a little older, just a little more tired. It was this same quality that occasionally gave Shawna a sickening in her stomach.

            No bands that night but that didn’t stop a bar wide sing-a-long when some genius chose “Living on a Prayer” on the jukebox. Mohawks, mullets, and dye jobs of all kinds flew through the cloud of smoke, tattooed arms held imaginary microphones and guitars. PBR cans and Budweiser bottles were thrust in the air turned up and drained. Their poses were heroic, a hundred marble Greek statues paying homage to the forgotten ways of the Dionysians. Shawna popped bottle caps and poured shots with the utmost style and grace while she sang. Even Stephen was tapping his hands on the bar and singing softly to himself, in between sips of course. She thought of how she relished in these moments only months before, but they grew less triumphant. Am I taking it for granted? Is it because I’m behind the bar? Am I jaded? Or do I just know it can be better than this?

*          *          *          *          *

            No one in Birmingham ever asked for Anne’s ID, and when these places eventually found out her true age no one ever seemed to really mind. Hell, she’d been drinking since she was fifteen, four years now. She was an old pro, as natural as anyone else walking into these “Gin joints.” She knew that because her ex-boyfriend had taken her to the Alabama Theater to see Casablanca, which was a terrific movie. He had insisted on her wearing a dress and heels, and he wore his suit and tie. It was romantic, and how many people had ever seen that classic on the big screen? How cool is that? “Have you seen Casablanca?” “Yeah, I saw it at the Theatre!”

            Waiting tables was working out well for her. Everyone at her restaurant liked her. She felt like the popular girl in school, which she had never been and may or may not have had something to do with why she never finished high school. She made more money than most of the people there because she could unbutton her shirt a bit, shoot a smile here and there, flirt and laugh and whammo! She’s getting tipped thirty, forty, fifty percent, no shit! Hell, it got her out of her parents house. Her apartment was OK, but she got to shop occasionally and she always had money to go out drinking. Plus she escaped the tyranny of her step-dad.

            She was just enjoying life. She was young and had everything ahead of her, and she wasn’t naïve in the least. She was worldly. She had attended an accelerated high school which had the decided advantage of turning brilliant young people into jaded young adults. That night she had two friends at the house, sharing drinks and smoking pot over the new Hold Steady album which her ex-boyfriend had let her borrow assuring her of its greatness and future as being one of the pure albums which would stand the test of time with its greatness. She didn’t know if he was right or not, but she dug the lyrics. The two guys lounged on her futon in silence, occasionally lighting the bong. She sung aloud, tried to persuade her guests into dancing with her in the middle of the living room, but to no avail. –Come on guys! Because some night’s it’s kinda clear but tonight it’s like we’re stuck between stations, ON THE RADIO! She jumped and banged her head, shook her hips with her arms above her head, crossing and rubbing one another. –Times like these I miss Nebe.

            -What the fuck is Neh-bay?

            -It was this bar in Prague I used to go to.

            -You lived in Prague?

            -Yeah, I thought I told you that?

            -That’s pretty cool, the other guest said. –How was the pot there?

            -Yeah, Prague’s in France right?

            -No, it’s in the Czech Republic.

            -Are drugs legal there? Anne forgot who was who. The strength it took to keep their eyes from completely closing must have been immense. She felt suddenly tired. –What the fuck were you doing in FRAWG?

            She sat down on her couch and lit a cigarette. She was too tired to fetch another drink. –My ex-boyfriend and I lived there for six months. We were teaching English.

            -Oh… this thing is cashed. The one guy looked at the other. Too dumb for telepathy, she knew they were none-the-less communicating silently. They looked at her, then back at one another.

            -Well, I don’t have anymore guys.

            They sat for a moment of silence. –Bummer.

            Anne sighed. –I’m about to go to bed anyways, did you guys want to sleep on the couch?

            The duo looked at one another and decided they had best be on their way. Anne said goodnight and locked the door behind them. She tried showing affection to her cat, who merely wanted to claw and gnaw on her. Another glass of wine. The sun would be coming out soon. She didn’t have cable so she kept the stereo on. She looked at her phone but didn’t need to scroll through the numbers to know there was no one she could call right then.

*          *          *          *          *

            Jacob loved Lucille and Merryl was a finch, or looked like a finch, or something. Merryl knew she was finchish in some way, and she knew that was an unattractive quality to possess. Lucille wasn’t finch in any way whatsoever, but she was awful which Merryl had the decided advantage of being far from awful. So Merryl, daunted by her unrequited love, did what any girl from Birmingham would do to get a boy to like her; she became a rabid Alabama fan.

            It’s been proven time and time again that any one that has any reason to watch college football can quickly learn enough of the rules and strategy to enjoy it. Merryl’s father and mother had worn crimson and white since she could remember (though neither of them attended U of A) but she had never shown much of an interest until she realized her crush would spend time with her watching football and talking about football. She had never been to a game, knew very little about the history, and didn’t realize it was actually fun to watch.

            All around the world one can engage conversation with any type of person now matter what cultural differences exist as long as the subject is kept to the weather. In Birmingham, one could find themselves conversing with the most unlikely of companions as long as the subject was Alabama Football. People of all different classes, races, religions (though this is Birmingham’s least diverse aspect), sexual orientations are intimately familiar with Alabama football. Merryl, wanting a little education on the subject before she used it to seduce Jacob, went to the most intelligent person she knew. She had been surprised to learn that Stephen was so passionate about football and was now thankful she could go to a good friend she trusted to help her with this problem. Of course, Stephen was an Auburn fan.

            -No.

            -What?

            -No!

            -Why not?!

            -Merryl, have you lost your mind? You want to become an Alabama fan to get some guy to like you. First off, rooting for Bama is a character flaw.

            -Oh come on Stephen!

            -No! Do you even know what you’re entering into? A social club living in the past. Millions of people waiting for the return of a coach that died twenty something years ago. A program that was impressive but has descended into mediocrity because of an irrational fan base that will accept nothing less than what existed in the past and is unwilling to have the patience to be able to achieve that level of domination. Don’t be an idiot, be an Auburn fan.

            -You just don’t wanna help me because you’re an Auburn fan. I mean my parents were Alabama fans, that’s who I’ve always rooted for.

            -That doesn’t matter. If you wanted to pull for Texas or USC or somebody like that I wouldn’t mind. I’m just trying to keep you from years of disappointment in case you really start to care. Alabama is stuck in the past, the glory days, and those days are gone, Auburns are arriving as we speak.

            At first the best part was buying all the cute Alabama apparel: t-shirts, sweatshirts, a purse, socks, stickers for her car, a stuffed Big Al, key chains, shot glasses, a Bear Bryant hat, blankets, flags, shakers, glass figurines, posters and paintings, candles, oven mitts, clocks, water bottles, seat cushions, books, lamps, lawn chairs, panties, and even condoms and dildos. She soon found that a basic understanding of Tide history and offensive play calling could score her guys much more desirable than Jacob, if only for a night.

*          *          *          *          *

            Faly came to Birmingham as a refugee from New Orleans after the disaster of Hurricane Katrina. He had come to America by way of Madagascar. Like most expatriates from odd corners of the world who found themselves in Birmingham, Faly found himself working at Surin West while attending UAB in hopes of a more promising career than rolling sushi.

            That afternoon he paced nervously about his apartment and persistently consulted his closet. What would he wear? He only became particular about his appearance on certain, usually special, occasions which was a result of his Americanization. Tonight he should look his best.

            Earlier that morning he had played soccer with several of his coworkers. He was the second to arrive, second to the only American present for the match. Stephen gave him a cigarette as he sat in the car to keep warm as they waited. –Do you work tonight?

            -No. Tonight I am having dinner with my girlfriend. I am going to propose.

            -Really?

            -Oui, but I am nervous. She said I must ask her parents first.

            -What did they say?

            -Her mother is coming over tonight. I call her and tell her I would like to to talk to her about some social issue. Is that right?

            Stephen, a bit shocked, thought for a second rubbing his thick day old stubble, -I would simply say, “There is something important I would like to talk to you about,” or, “ask you.” How long have you guys been dating?

            -Today is our anniversaire, our for one year… anniversary.

            -Oh… well, good luck.

            Faly had hit the jackpot, so to speak. That’s why he showed up to the soccer game in a BMW, because Laura was his girlfriend. Laura’s parents were wealthy republicans, and Laura was the twenty-something daughter of wealthy republicans from Mountain Brook. Mountain Brook was Birmingham’s “old money” community, unlike Hoover, parts of Vestavia and Trussville, and Greystone which were more likely to be home to people who had good credit and a few hundred thousand dollars worth of debt. Laura was a debutante and was presented to society at the proper time, a tradition all but forgotten in Birmingham.  Her father was a prominent attorney, as his father before him and his father before him.

            The Sessions family had been a prominent fixture in Alabama politics and the Alabama judicial system for three generations. Abel Sessions, Laura’s grandfather, was an integral factor of Governor George Wallace’s various gubernatorial and presidential campaigns. He learned the secrets of modern politics from the founder himself and had the insight to recognize the destructive power of racism which eventually destroyed the career of the prominent governor. Abel would spend the latter years of his life donating to charities for minorities, taking special interest (even occasionally trying) cases involving racial injustice, helped to reopen the investigation into the 16^th Street Baptist Church bombing decades after the incident, participated in community outreach and restoration programs, and funded scholarships for underprivileged African-American children. This particular value was passed down through the Sessions family and came out in Laura in many ways including being a Big Sister to two African-American children.

            Helping the poor was as much a way of life for Laura as shopping for clothes, but her charity, tolerance, and acceptance had completely skipped one group of people; the middle class. She did not care for Faly’s friends, no matter what nationality they may be. Faly didn’t seem to mind though, and as far as her friends were concerned he was simply happy to be accepted by them. The lifestyle they lived was what he dreamed living in America would be like when he was a teenager in Madagascar. That day he was nervous because that lifestyle was about to become his until the day he died.

            Not only was he unsure about what he should wear but he had no earthly idea of how to talk to Laura’s parents about marrying their daughter. Mrs. Sessions had expressed an inordinate amount of concern about Faly taking her daughter back to Madagascar to live. Faly preferred life in America so that really wasn’t an issue, but convincing Mrs. Sessions of that might be. He briefly considered buying a new cologne to wear for the evening, being aware of the strong connection between aroma and memory, but decided against it due to lack of time. He convinced himself that his normal cologne would suffice because the event being as momentous in their lives as it would be would forever tie that familiar smell to this particular happy moment.

The closet, even though small compared to many, became overwhelming and he relocated to the bathroom to trim his nails, shave, clean his ears, and narcissistically inspect himself in the mirror. He studied every feature of his head, acknowledging his prominent points and recognizing his flaws, and thought to himself how Laura loved each and every aspect of his head. She loves me for my eyes, my deep, dark brown eyes. Like the eyes of a puppy. Loving eyes. She loves me for the mole on the side of my nose, and the mole on my neck that is even bigger. For her they are endearing, they are “cute”. She loves that my ears are perfectly even and perfectly proportionate to my head. She sees that my face is symmetrical and thinks it is beautiful. She loves my thin upper lip. She thinks it is good to kiss. She likes to feel it on her neck. Faly suddenly thought about the last time he flossed and could not remember whether he had that day or not, so he decided to go ahead and floss, again maybe.

            In Madagascar fishing was a normal part of life which everyone was able to do and did. The lucky ones, like Faly, were the ones who fished for pleasure, for the relaxing experience of stepping away from the daily trudge and escaping to nature. The unlucky ones fished to survive, which was not uncommon. Surrounding Birmingham were several rivers and lakes that was home to some of the best bass fishing on the face of the planet. Fishing was still a major hobby for many in the Birmingham Metropolitan area, but the closer to the city you got the fewer fishers you found. Although the fishing in Alabama was different than the fishing in Madagascar, ultimately fishing is fishing and really there was no difference in the act itself. Different species of fish, different bait, different rods and reels, and different depths of casting your hook, but ultimately the act, the atmosphere, the therapy of fishing is the same anywhere in the world as long as you are fishing because you choose to as opposed to fishing for your livelihood. Faly had never fished to pay the bills or to be able to eat, he had always fished for the pure enjoyment of the activity. And as he inspected himself in the bathroom mirror he wondered why he had not gone fishing one time since he had arrived in Alabama.

*          *          *          *          *

            Oh God, poor Olivia was looking for love in all the wrong places. She had been ogling a charming coworker for a few weeks now and was unsure of how to make her move. Well, it’s not like she hadn’t had the chance, more like she hadn’t had the chance she wanted. He was very friendly at work, and a flirt to boot! A flattering, charming flirt, not one of those asshole types that make you feel like they just want to fuck you. Each day he became more amazing. But maybe she hadn’t made her move because she knew she had begun to find him amazing and she knew that although he may be fond of her, he would never find her amazing.

            That was the worst feeling, a love unreciprocated. She had known it all to intimately. The fall before, Merryl had invited her to booze it up one Saturday over an Alabama football game at a friends house. “There’ll be a lot of cute guys there,” Merryl had guaranteed. Of course, the cutest guy, the guy that took an interest in Olivia, was Matthew Skrote. His girlfriend Sherri was with him that day, sitting quietly aside and occasionally chit-chatting with one of the two other girlfriends present while Matt hoped and hollered, carousing with old friends and new alike. For Sherri a typical outing with Matt. His flirtations with Olivia were not overt but easily noticeable, unrecognized by Sherri because of their familiarity; that’s just how Matt is with girls.

            The only interest the football game held for Olivia was the social possibilities. Honestly, she only cared who won to the extent that she believed an Alabama win would make for a better post game environment than a Bama loss. She talked to Sherri and actually really liked her. Her only reservation about Sherri was that she felt Sherri treated her with a lack of sincere interest due to Olivia being at least half a decade younger than Sherri, but she figured that that attitude would change with time and getting to know one another better. She liked Sherri, but she liked Matt even more. He was so funny! Everybody liked him.

            She would never learn if Merryl knew at the time her intentions but she would come to deeply regret using Merryl to meet Matt when Sherri wasn’t around. She felt she played a cool hand and had confidence in her surreptitiousness. Matt had given her that smile during the game, and she sensed that eventually he would have found her again without ever having to look but she couldn’t wait around for that. She needed him seeing her while she was fresh on his mind, before he thought himself out of being with her. That look meant something. Maybe it was a momentary lapse in reason but she believed that action during that time could prove out to be a great decision. Maybe Sherri sat on the sidelines because Matt didn’t really love her. Maybe he had never really experienced true love and Sherri was just the closest he had ever come.

            Friday night at the Plaza was as good a place to run into someone you know as any in Birmingham and that was where Olivia next saw Matt. Merryl had tipped her off, not that she couldn’t have guessed on her own, and Merryl was around one of the six pool tables with the friends she had come to drink with while Olivia and Matt sat at the bar conversing. Olivia noticed the look on Shawna’s face as Matt ordered his beer; hands on her hip, one eyebrow raised, and she obediently brought his drink and only slightly violently slammed it down in front of him, haughtily snatching the cash from his hand. It wasn’t until the third drink, -Nother one! Matt shouted as he held up and shook an empty Budweiser bottle. Shawna recognized him reluctantly and obliged quickly.

            -She hasn’t said a word to you all night. What a bitch!

            -Yep.

            -She’s acting like you’re a chore or something. What’s her problem?

            -Just being a bitch. Or maybe some camel jockey bullshit, or she’s on her period, who knows? Olivia couldn’t help but laugh and Matt was quick to jump in with a random one liner, happy to change the subject.

            Two drinks later Olivia realized that they had established constant physical contact during their conversation. It had started slow and awkward, as always with the first “date”. She would laugh and gently place her hand on his shoulder. He would put his arm around her to stress the import of his words, and release by exploding his arms into the air signifying the antidotes climax. She would exclaim, “OH!” as she grabbed his leg tightly and let her hand rest there as she shared with him the thought that had sprung into her mind.

            -Hey! There’s Anne! Hey Anne! Olivia shouted across the bar to the blonde walking in as she stood from her stool. Anne looked towards her and burst into all teeth, waving excitedly to Olivia, but continuing on her set path. –Oh… Olivia muttered as she sat back on the stool, -She must be meeting friends or something?

            -Friend of yours?

            -Yeah, we work together.

            Anne disappeared into the same realm that Merryl had been in since their arrival. As Olivia turned back to Matt he continued to compliment her and make her laugh. They were making a connection, building a foundation. He moved from touching her leg to playing with her hair as he talked to her. You can find something in common with anyone you take the time to talk to, and they had plenty in common, but what was special about this was they were finding a depth to each other that only happens with relationships of some significance. They were connecting.

            They fucked. Olivia locked her cat out of the bedroom. Immediately afterwards Matt wanted to sleep so she subsided and let him rest in peace. She resisted temptation to run her fingers through his chest hair and simply watched him, head on pillow head in hand, as he snoozed. After a half hour or so he rolled toward her and she immediately collapsed into an extremely uncomfortable position as his arm fell over her. His hand began rhythmically squeezing her left breast. Fearing waking him, she did not move a muscle. She ignored the discomfort and eventual cramping deciding instead to enjoy the feeling of his hand upon her tit and arm lifelessly resting across her torso. Sleep would eventually overcome her as she drifted off into utopian dimensions of pleasant, restful, sleep without dreams.

            In the morning Matt would fuck her once more and leave hurriedly to arrive at work on time. She would sporadically receive phone calls from Matt asking if he could come visit, which she would accept and relive a devalued incident of their first night together. There was an increasing distance in between these calls, which would peter out in less than two moths time. Matt was never nearly as charming or complimentary as he had been on that first night.

            Matt was simply another ghost wandering the thoroughfares of Birmingham, occasionally appearing at its few various haunts, politely pretending that he had no idea that Olivia existed whenever their paths may have crossed. Although Olivia felt used, she still believed that if she had been given a fair chance that Matt would have left his Sherri for her, but she no longer hoped for that, she only took solace that she knew the truth.

            Somehow she knew her crush at work wasn’t the same type man, yet she felt he would accept her advances and feel there was an understanding that he wasn’t in love with her. She asked her best friend Kristin about her situation:

            -Work relationships are a bad idea.

            -I know, I know, but

            -No Olivia, you’re denying. This guy hasn’t shown any true interest. When things fall apart what will work be like then?

            -But we connect at work! I can talk to him, you know? And I think if we went out on a date or spent some time together outside of work without other people around then he would really start to see what I’m seeing, you know? I think we could have something special.

            -Honey, if he had a thing for you something would’ve happened by now. If you let him sleep with you he’ll care even less about you afterwards than he does now.

            -Wow…

            -Look honey, I love you. I’ve learned a few things. If you just want to fuck him, fine, do it. But you don’t. You’re in love with him, and I’m telling you he’s not in love with you and you will get hurt.

            -So, who doesn’t just wanna get laid? Where do I find that guy?

*          *          *          *          *

            Many Birminghamians had suspected that one GQ Magazine had a writer on its staff from Birmingham because of various articles mentioning or referencing Alabama Football, and a particular article which named The Garage as the number two bar in the world worth flying to simply to drink at. Now, that’s not to say that The Garage didn’t have a charm and tender to it, but that article left one with a feeling of disappointment for all the unvisited bars around the world. The Garage had been a southern antique store of some sort, the kind that sold various cement lawn fixtures, metal furniture, potted plants, and pots for plants. When business went under a man with a lover for alcohol bought out the place, merchandise and all, and turned it into a bar with an elaborate patio, twelve different “garages” displayed behind fiberglass under a canopy of dogwood adorned with the cement tables, benches and statues of the former inhabitant. The bar was easily among the most appealing in Birmingham save its one major disadvantage; if you went to The Garage you were bound to spend your time with the people you came there with save the odd occurrence on a slow night when the few people present all sat at the bar.

            And it was a night like that when Chad found himself beside Stephen, restraining his drunken self from starting a fight with the female owner of The Nick, which could be found just around the corner. The Nick was Birmingham’s oldest dive bar, a glorified piss and vomit soaked trailer which nightly had either untalented or washed up musical acts performing so that no one in the bar could hold a conversation. The Nick had always featured local acts, and its early days in the late eighties and early nineties had played host to promising up-and-comers on the national scene. The Red Hot Chili Peppers had performed there before the world could sing along with Under the Bridge. But twenty years later it was a washed up, all-but-forgotten, 2 Live Crew performing in the coveted Saturday night spot; a show which would only bring an audience interested in a novelty of nostalgia. Many more nights than naught, the music playing at The Nick were local bands that were trying to recapture the sounds of Nirvana influenced groups such as Creed, Bush, and Nickleback. The promising bands from around the country had moved on to making their Birmingham stop The Bottle Tree, and The Nick was stuck with the leftovers. When once a show at The Nick was a successful night for a local band, it had become a way of paying their dues towards better things.

            Chad felt he had been asked his honest opinion and had said he preferred The Bottle Tree, Marty’s, The Garage (where they were currently situated), and The Plaza to The Nick.

            -That’s kind of a cocksucker thing to say, said the boyfriend of the woman who claimed to own The Nick.

            -Yeah, I know, I’m a cocksucker, Chad replied earnestly, -But that’s just my opinion.

            The woman, gapped toothed and overweight, finished off her drink and motioned for another, -You are being an asshole, you know. I mean everybody has their own opinion…

            -And my opinion is he was right! Sorry to butt in on your conversation, but he had a point and I was agreeing with him.

            -And who the fuck are you? Huh? What do you do? The Nick owner stood out of her chair as she questioned Chad.

            -I’m just somebody that goes to bars is all.

            -No, I’m asking you what you do. She slammed her palm on the bar and shook her head. –I’m asking you what makes you so qualified to talk shit about my bar. I want to know why I should be impressed enough with you to care what you think about my bar!

            -I was just sharing my opinion, Chad replied as he turned back to his whiskey. The bartender Tony stood back watching, hesitantly trying to take a step forward.

            -You should be more like your friend, she said as she pointed at Stephen, who until then had simply sat chewing on a straw and sipping his beer, -he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Chad shrugged and took another drink from his beer. Stephen, chewing his straw, looked at The Nick’s owner with raised eyebrows. She smiled at him, purposefully and briefly, and turned back to her boyfriend.

            -Don’t smile at me.

            -Excuse me?

            Stephen gave her time to look around to other people in her utter surprise at being verbally confronted, and when her eyes finally came back to him, -You insult my friend while he’s in the bathroom, you sit here and belittle people for having an opinion and then try and play this open mindedness bullshit.

            -Excuse ME! She shouted.

            Stephen slammed his fist on the bar, -NO! Maybe if you would spend a little less time insulting your potential customers and a little more time listening to why they feel the way they do, maybe then we would excuse you. But your bar is mediocre at best, and as you’ve been a cunt tonight I suspect the reason it is suffering is because of your cunt attitude. The Nick owner began screaming profanities and lunged across the bar at Stephen. Her boyfriend held her back while shouting profanities across the bar, albeit slightly more logical than his better half. Stephen threw down a twenty, told Tony to keep the change, and began to walk out of the bar smiling deviously at his newfound foe. Chad had begun laughing hysterically, which did not help to relieve the mood in the least.

            -Your bar is so washed up! Chad shouted amidst his hysterical laughter.

            The Nick owner continued to scream profanities relentlessly towards the two men, and her boyfriend continued to feign holding her back. –Congratulations on owning the historic dive of Birmingham! Stephen shouted over her profanities as he made his way to the door.

            -At least I have something! What the fuck do you do? Who the fuck are you?

            Stephen paused holding the front door open, -You’re right, I’m nobody, but it’s better than being a fucking unsuccessful cunt.

            In the car Chad admitted his state of drunkenness. Stephen admitted he was glad he had called that woman a cunt to her face.

*          *          *          *          *

            Jessica held a chip on her shoulder not only for Mountain Brook police but for small town police forces in general. See, the Birmingham City cops had too much “real” shit to deal with to be bothered with twenty-something’s smoking dope or having a party or whatever. After Katrina, enough New Orleans refugees had ended up in this lovely city to raise the crime rate enough to make Birmingham the sixth most dangerous city in America, ranked along with great places like Compton and Detroit. The murder rate was high, and by God the statistics said a ridiculous amount of the homicide was committed by black males under thirty-five. But black people didn’t live in Mountain Brook, so the cops spent their time harassing young white hippie girls, trying to score marijuana indictments here and there.

            That night, upon screened in porch in slightly frigid pre-spring air, Jessica harangued her old friends and one new one on a topic they had all heard one million times before: the ridiculousness of pot being illegal and the absurdity of the punishments that stem from association with marijuana. The new friend from work, Stephen, interjected, -You’re using alcohol as the counterpoint and raising the question of why it is legal and pot isn’t, but maybe the more important question is whether the problems marijuana causes is from the drug itself or from the fact that it’s been declared as illegal by our government.

            -Exactly! Jessica exclaimed. –Because, I mean, think about it. I mean, really think about the things you do when you get drunk. People get violent, people get crazy, ya know? And on pot you just chill out. Pot’s so more passive. People don’t kill people on pot.

            -That’s not what I’m saying. Alcohol doesn’t make me violent, but I sure as hell know pot makes me worthless, or useless. The question is whether or not that’s a punishable offense, like with alcohol, although it doesn’t affect me the way…

            -See, that’s what I’m talking about. I can smoke a joint and be cool. Just chill, ya know? And Jessica continued on. She had owned a pipe which cost her twelve hours in jail and about four thousand dollars in fees. Her story of jail was plain, you don’t want to go there. Her friend Amy had had a different experience. Amy had a neighbor that she didn’t agree with. She was pretty, blonde, big titted and small waisted, and she figured her neighbor held that against her because he was an older, ugly and single man. He had made the habit of calling the cops on her, originally because of loud parties or other somewhat legitimate reasons. One night she walked to her car to retrieve a C.D. and upon walking back to the apartment she was accosted by police that were hiding in the bushes of her apartment building. She had been drinking wine in her apartment, and she was accosted upon that. Although she assured the police that she had no intentions of driving, was only retrieving some music, she still found herself arrested for public intoxication. She was strip searched by male cops and then was thrown in a cell with two other women. The fluorescent light was never turned off. No one was happy or even accepting of the fact that they are there. Later a woman is dragged into the cell unconscious. Amy muttered, -She looks dead. And everyone else agreed. For two days this woman lied motionless in the jail cell, sleeping. Her looks deteriorated rapidly with every hour. Looking dead fell away to a conviction of death. The other inhabitants began to believe she was dead and appealed to the guards, who did not adhere. When the woman finally awakened she immediately sat on the cell toilet and took a shit that would impress an elephant. Her cellmates choked and clanged on the cell bars pleading to the guards claiming that they were being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. Turns out the woman had been fucked up and once pulled over had swallowed the remaining ten Loritabs she had in her possession, which had induced the short term coma. All in all, the danger of marijuana was arguable and the experience of jail was horrible.

            Stephen was drinking fast. Even though he felt boredom brought upon himself by the conversation he still found it effortless to look Jessica in the eyes throughout, which he was not accustomed to doing. He found them beautiful, but for the first time in his life it wasn’t for the color but for their shape. He could not even recall their color. This sent an odd sensation through him as he typically found himself longing for green or blue eyes that literally shined. Now he found himself completely entranced by the shape of this woman’s eyes. He decided to leave.

            Anastacia was torn over Stephen’s exit. She had sat aside silently as Jessica and Stephen talked, yet the few times she did speak up and engage conversation with Stephen she felt a fire blazing inside her. –He was a cool guy. Talking to him didn’t seem like he was recycling all that garbage from books and lectures, he seems to actually take in information and put out his own opinion of it. Not just repeating the things he’s heard.

            -I like him too, Jessica responded to Anastacia.

            -Do you think he has something against Jews?

            -What?

            -Well, that joke, when he said, “It’s funny because it’s true, like Schindler’s List.” I mean…

            -You’ve never let that shit get to you before, why now? All the sudden?

            -You’re right.

Last update : 29-03-2007 20:29

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