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jota
Jota is a san francisco poet & writer who believes poetry
always overcomes pr, eventually.
Two-Fingered Shot of Bushmills
Chased with a Budweiser and Ten Marlboro Reds
"You have no new messages" so I hung up the phone
and started to whistle, which is something I do when scared or
bored, because I just realized that while still behaving as if
I was actually employed it would be only a few more hours before
the boss would truly find out and I wouldn't be employed anymore.
So I went back to the bar and that's when I saw my face on TV
and a CG on the screen that said something like manhunt and the
talking head of the news anchor droning on about a fugitive suspected
of pushing a man in front of bus.
It was all an accident, I swear.
I had followed this executive from Wire and Cableless who
I knew was speaking in a couple of days at this big seminar in
town at the Fair Oaks Hotel where my client had wanted to speak
at this eBiz conference and hired us to make it happen. My boss
had given me three weeks to land a juicy plum speaking opp for
my guy but I had fucked up and missed the deadline.
There was only one way out.
How was I to know that the busload of Japanese tourists would
come hurtling down the street just as I stepped behind Mr. Slick
who suddenly leapt right out in front and got squashed against
the grill just like one of those winged dragonflies you'd see
pasted there on the bumper of your Chevy Impala right outside
Joplin on a summer night stopping off for a burger and a milkshake.
Anyway. There's this dead guy in the street now and the driver
has bolted out of the bus and is standing there and isn't sure
whether he should try to peel the guy off the grill of the bus
and at the same time a swarm of excited Japanese tourists buzz
right out the bus that's stopped dead in its tracks crooked in
the street and one of these tourists takes my picture and starts
pointing frantically at me. He's yelling at the top of his lungs
and jumping up and down so I don't know how the picture will
come out. Cripes. Maybe he saw the cancer in my soul and maybe
I blacked out and pushed the guy. The sirens start getting nearer.
I break out in sweat and right there I decide to bolt. I'm doing
the hundred yard dash and then everywhere around me people begin
backing away, a red sea of moppet heads, waving and staring at
me like out of the invasion of the body snatchers...I kept running
and didn't slow down until I collapsed in an alley, out of breath.
I noticed this back door, and it leads into a dive bar so I go
on in.
Now there's about six people in here I can tell as I adjust
me eyes. I try to act cool and saunter in still puffing but everybody
in the place is staring at me. I go to the nearest end of the
bar and order a double shot of bushmills neat and a budweiser.
The bartender looks at me, looks at my suit and says son, it's
ten-thirty in the morning. I mumble something and wave him off
as I light a Marleboro Red. He grouses off, a big tubby guy and
when he comes back he slams a cocktail glass on the bar and then
starts to pour the whiskey. That's when I noticed he has only
two fingers. Man, I was sure glad I asked for a double shot.
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