The establishment had become quite unruly by now. Much of New Albany’s finest Captain Morgan had already been imbibed by us, and I’m fairly certain our newfound enemies – who had all too quickly degenerated themselves from the prospect of modern civility – had taken in their share of that terrible drink as well. Every bar patron was looking at us now with a certain degree of fear and loathing at our behavior, and I knew pretty soon we’d be fucked.
***
We had arrived sometime that afternoon. It wasn’t until we crossed that mighty and majestic bridge and entered the city that the good doctor, my companion, started screaming.
“Where’s the mescaline, man! We ain’t got any fucking mescaline!”
“Christ, man! Control yourself! We should be grateful. We’re here to do a job, and that rotten stuff will only get us killed.”
Ah, the job. There is a rare breed of drunken fool that can be found staggering about these Midwest social functions, and it was our unofficial mission to seek him out. One could observe this strange mammal shuffling like the undead and looking for action, yelling all forms of curses and generally pissing on the social public. This was certainly not the only attraction to be viewed on our journey into the depths of Harvest Homecoming, but I felt that the world should be warned.
We entered the festival and immediately blended in with the population. Being the curious outsiders that we were, we didn’t want to rouse suspicion and find ourselves into mortal danger. This was the undiscovered country, the Southwest passage. And we were Stanley and Livingston, braving the unknown temperament of the locals, and moving in their midst.
“Be cautious, man! Be careful. Who knows what these natives do in large groups?” My companion, the good doctor, said nothing.
The atmosphere was a curious one, indeed. One could smell cheap perfume and spilled beer and the occasional whiff of body odor that attacked the nose with reckless abandon. There was funnel cake everywhere. So much so that my companion was thoroughly convinced that it grew wild in the city streets. The men were shuffling and moaning and the women were laughing like hyenas, but neither belonged to the class we were searching for. In a crowd such as this, one could only shuffle and hold his wallet to his rear. Flesh was wall-to-wall in all directions, and everyone wanted your money.
Suddenly, I was flanked.
“Invisible balloons!”
Creeping Jesus! I thought, and nearly fell over myself. What is this goddamn animal?!
It looked like a clown, but only by rough description. Red nose. Messy hair. Crooked smile, and an intolerable voice - arguably coherent. He could very well have been a stumbling alcoholic for all I knew, but his big stupid shoes gave him away. Was this our man? I couldn’t say. He looked jolly enough, but if there was one marble missing, it was the right one. And come to think of it, I’ve never met a clown that wasn’t crazy. We left the goon to his own devices, and pressed on. My companion chimed in:
“Maybe we should go looking in that bar over there.” It was called the Hitching Post, and there was liquor inside.
“Very well,” I said. “No doubt our man will go searching for booze at this hour. But remember, man! We’re above him. Fuck knows what that devil drink will do if we give in!”
Inside, there was the usual tavern faire. Construction workers and old college buddies and men wearing Harley Davidson jackets with visible pride.
“I don’t remember seeing a motorcycle outside,” said the good doctor.
“Be quiet, you fool! They’ll string you up for saying that here.”
We found a spot in the corner, and sat down. There was a local football game playing, and everyone seemed to be unnaturally mesmerized by the hulking armored players on the TV set. Occasionally, there were whoops, hollers, and all manners of raucous. It sounded like a fucking zoo, and I’d had enough.
“He’s not here,” I said. “We’re too far off the beaten path.”
“Relax,” said the good doctor, my companion. “He’ll be here. We’re just early. As your attorney, I advise you to have a drink.”
“No! We’re here to do a job, man! Have you forgotten?!”
“We’re in a bar. What else are you gonna do?”
The bastard was right. I ordered a potent brand, and it wasn’t long before my head was swimming and making accusations. Cursing and yelling loudly and generally being a nuisance. Or was that someone else? Hours became minutes I couldn’t recall. All I knew was uncertainty, the complete works of Emily Dickinson, and that drink. That awful drink. Flies buzzing around my head. Make them stop!
The good doctor laughed. “Man, those Louisville Cardinals! You can’t beat ‘em!”
Finally, a moment of clarity.
“Christ, man! Shit!” I jumped up and yelled, unaware that sometime in the past few hours, the bar had filled to capacity.
“Hey! I’m trying to watch the game!” said someone.
“I don’t care about the game, and I don’t care about the fucking Louisville Cardinals! If I wanted to watch a horde of clammy, giant, dumb motherfuckers hugging each other, I’d have joined the fucking Marines! Now come on, you bastard! We’ve got a job to do, and it’s not too late!”
Unknown to me, the bar had filled with current Marines on leave and their ex-Marine friends. They had been watching the football game for quite a while, and were ardent fans of that brutal sport. Several of them had money riding on the outcome. They were not pleased with my previous commentary, and they felt that I should know this fact. All at once, they stood up, telling us with their scowling faces that they were the authority around here. More quickly than I would have liked, the bar populace began to rise from their seats.
The establishment had become quite unruly by now. Much of New Albany’s finest Captain Morgan had already been imbibed by us, and I’m fairly certain our newfound enemies – who had all too quickly degenerated themselves from the prospect of modern civility – had taken in their share of that terrible drink as well. Every bar patron was looking at us now with a certain degree of fear and loathing at our behavior, and I knew pretty soon we’d be fucked. We were strutting drunk and in no condition for battle, but there was a general understanding that an epic encounter was forthcoming. Shit! I thought. We’ll be killed!
“This was your fault!”
The good doctor, my companion, smiled. Conveniently, he had nothing to say on this most pressing matter. A rare creature indeed. No more skilled in the art of timely communication as chickens are in polka dancing. I attempted to barter with the goons, offering to trade my mortal soul for safe passage, but to no avail. The sweaty brutes closed in, pounding their fists and snarling. This is the end, I thought. We should have brought the drugs.
And then...a miracle befell. Just before our rotten end became the truth, the bastard, my companion, the good doctor, spoke:
“His mother died. The funeral is tomorrow.”
The villains sighed. They understood. Before long, they had retracted their furious desire for blood, and had resumed their gentle drinking. We departed.
When a man faces certain death and lives, he inevitably ponders the important questions. The greatest questions. What is life? Why are we here? Who made these intolerable creatures such as ourselves?
I had no answers. I could only ask the questions. Large quantities of alcohol can torture a man in this terrible way, if he doesn’t keep his wits. The Captain Morgan had worn thin, but it wasn’t dead. Be cautious. Be careful.
In driving away, down that welcome interstate and away from the “Festival of Homecoming Harvest Fiesta,” or whatever the fuck it was called, I found myself wondering which was the greater Hell - that there existed such a degenerate place of madness, its faithful denizens all murderous and sex-crazed and still humping the American dream...
...or that we flocked there. Arm in arm. Happy.
END
