The Answer is Yes
Keep Conversation
Civil
-Red Rover, sole proprietor of the H.H.B.
10. Melrose Boulevard
There are a few things to know about the High Hopes Bar.
The stools at the H.H.B. are 45 feet tall, cemented into linoleum flooring, and made from cherry wood.
The H.H.B. seats six people per night.
Reservations retail at eight-hundred dollars, made months, sometimes years in advance. The price of scalped tickets may reach into the thousands.
One man by the name of Dale Shingles once paid thirteen thousand for a seat on the night before Yom Kippur.
The days since last accident is always 1.
Men and women sign a waiver before entering the H.H.B. recognizing the frequency of accidents when 45 feet in the air is mixed with alcohol. The person worst at handling this cocktail falls.
Dale Shingles’ drinking buddies for the night were all experienced drinkers. Heavy drinkers with stone stomachs.
Dale Shingles had been sober for fifteen years.
Most accidents are deaths, but the more graceful fallers may hope to leave paralyzed from the waist down or with a pair of broken legs.
Dale Shingles was a graceful faller. A very graceful faller. Perhaps too graceful.
Dale Shingles had been an Olympic Diver in the early 2000s and was well accustomed to the nose dive.
Dale Shingles, therefore, left his sins on earth that September. He ended up not needing Yom Kippur.
Dale Shingles died of split skull, the canyons of which perfectly resembled the relationship between the Tigris and Euphrates.
Dale Shingles wrote his last will and testament on a napkin after a martini and before falling.
The bartender, a man named Red Rover, has been named the world’s most prolific bartender ten years straight by Bartender’s Digest magazine--a flimsy, Kaolin-paper publication best read, by their polls. on the toilet, any Planned Parenthood waiting room, or in the business class section of any flight from the northern to southern hemisphere. By my accounts, Bartender’s Digest, is worst used as kindling for a fire greater than 5 feet by 5 feet. Red Rover’s speciality is a mojito.
Red Rover is a renowned conversationalist, with the ability to navigate conversation like a barge worker around the Chinampas on Lake Xochimilco of Mexico. It’s a place where even a mouse could charm a cat, a sanctuary of conversational magic. Zappa would have smiled here, I’m positive. Red Rover makes sure of it. His six guests make lifelong friends, even if one of their lives promptly ends.
Red Rover’s drinks are ambrosia for the people. He is truly special. The alcohol cracks the conversational window for him, and he just wrenches it up, until the whole room is aired out. Sentiments dry and undressed.
Red Rover found the last will and testament of Dale Shingles and threw it in the garbage chute he has by his right foot.
Dale Shingles wished to be cremated along with the stool he was sitting on and thrown from a jade jar into the Baltic ocean by his newest five drinking buddies. He wished to be in the presence of at least three Balkan women, a mohel, the logo of Virgin Airlines ripped off any plane flying into Newark airport, and the bedsheets he once used to make love to Grace Kelly in her old age at a Motel 6. The affair he wished to happen on the third Sunday of March. That’s when the easiest crossword in the NYT was always published
Red Rover didn’t know better. He didn’t feel regret. It was just a napkin.
The last thing Dale Shingles had seen was Red Rover changing the days since last accident sign from 1 to 0. Shingles, in his last moments, thought he had received a perfect 10. For what? For his dive? For his life? It’s unclear, but for Dale Shingles, the two were inextricable.
Nights at the H.H.B. only end when the ambulance is called. All 6 load into the ambulance and shoot off into the piping of the city. Flashing lights and all.
The most important thing to know about the High Hopes Bar, however, is as follows, but is not public information, and is therefore very sensitive:
Red Rover is a robot created by Harold & Winston Manufacturers of Winnipeg.
Red Rover sleeps--or does his equivalent of sleep--every night after the ambulance comes until three in the afternoon. He then prepares his drink menu, researches his guests an unspecified amount, and picks his outfit.
When I found out this information, the process of how this happened I will not disclose, I decided not to leak this information to the public.
Here is what Harold and Winston had to say when I called them on a misty night in Mid-November:
Red Rover was made to be the best.
He is the best.
That’s what I said.
No it is not.
Shuddup Winston.
5. Thinking me an independent journalist, which is not entirely correct or incorrect, Harold and Winston went on to expand on the safety, or whatever their version of safety was:
It is not
(More quietly as though said over a shoulder or from a couch feet to the left from the telephone receiver) Be tactful Harold
Skewed for deaths
Like we practiced
(The shuffling of feet. Static.) SHUT THE FUCK UP WINSTON YOU TUESDAY TRASH BAIL. (A Slap).
(The sound of the straightening of a tie. Blinds closed. Then opened) As I was saying, the High Hopes Bar is not skewed by deaths between gender or age. The seats are made for adult male bottoms, which statistically has meant females and the feeble elderly have more room to wobble whereas correctly-sized men just topple, despite heightened alcohol tolerance.
Statistics show 48 percent of injuries are women and of those injuries 64 percent are fatal. Of the 52 percent male injuries, 78 percent are fatal.
Thank you Winston.
Numbers, man.
What about em?
They don’t lie.
That’s right, buddy.
They can’t.
6. Red Rover only gets a two day break every four years. This is during the leap year in February.
7. There are two things Red Rover does that are so iconic even the public knows about them. The first is the way he flips the days since last accident sign from 1 to 0. So emotionless, wrote one journalist for the New York Times, so utterly routine. It is strange to call clockwork beautiful, but I must. The second thing that is iconic is Red Rover’s catchphrase: The Answer is Yes.
8. Red Rover has one personal anecdote:
And he came up with it himself.
Winston and I have no idea how it came about.
(The sound of shifting shoes on carpet)
Well we named him Red Rover.
But that was because it’s familiar.
The first few weeks were rough.
Yeah his original name was John Smith.
Cause we thought y’know everyone knows a John Smith.
But everyone knows the game. It’s better. It puts them off guard.
Makes them comfortable with a stranger.
Yeah what does Red say?
I’ll pull it up.
9. Red Rover’s one anecdote is about the origin of his name. Red Rover, he says, is a moniker. It was simply given to him in Afghanistan. That’s all he says.
I doubt he knows what Afghanistan is.
I think he knows what it is, Harold, I just don’t think he knows what it means. Or, not exactly.
What do you mean?
Well when I programmed Red I made sure he knew what countries are. So he knows the basics of what and where Afghanistan is.
(The sound of a thumb cuticle flossing through teeth)
I see. So I’m guessing he doesn’t know Afghanistan was a war.
No. He knows there was a war in Afghanistan.
So then, what’s up?
I have no clue. Only theories. Red doesn’t know about the dirt on his face, you know. Like, he can read anecdotes, memoirs, whatever about the war. But he doesn’t know the dirt, right? He doesn’t know what people wouldn’t want to talk about. Maybe he picked it up from somewhere, I don’t know.
But it fits, it does. Like it makes sense.
Indeed. I have a feeling it’s on purpose. He’s picked what he doesn’t have to explain.
10. Winston and Harold, during our phone call, asked me what I planned on doing with this information if I wasn’t going to spread it.
11. What happens next is a bit of crafty bribery, which may be self-congratulatory, but it’s the truth and even if it’s not, it’s not far from it.
What? We can’t tell you the names of the people who will be there on March 1st!
Like I can’t tell anyone about Red Rover?
It’s a breach of confidentiality! We don’t know when the next political figure or musician or actor will roll through to the H.H.B.! It has to be all secret! We don’t want no Franz Ferdinand WW3 on our hands! What if we had an assassination! On our hands! Our goddamn hands! They’ll be bloody! And no amount of lavender & honey handsoap can help that.
That feels like an over-exaggeration.
We have important clientele!
That feels like inflated self-importance.
(A rural silence. Like yawns of olive trees or yarns of yams. Cows chewing cud could be inserted)
Well, boys it’s six names or this all topples down. What are people going to say when their beloved bartender is espoused as a heartless, brainless robot?
(Shuffling of feet on carpet, ties swishing, the wheels of office chairs resettling into place)
12. I then got six names. Five I had never seen before and one that was mine.
Addison Alamari
Gideon Keats
Velocity Vincente
Rejdjello
Auden Elliot
Melvin Kelvin
13. There was one more thing I did before I ended the call with Harold and Winston. Surely they were wondering who I was, how I found out about Red Rover, and what I was going to do with the information.
You don’t plan--
Do either of you know who Dale Shingles was?
No. Winston?
Me either.
Thanks for your time, gentlemen.
(click)
(Account of March 1st Taken from Red Rover’s Brain by way of Memory Extractor)
The day was fresh and Red Rover could tell. It’s not as if he felt particularly different every day, but he liked to feel like he did. What else separates the days? He had to ask himself this. He had to ask himself something. He was coming to learn the difficulty of self-questioning was proportional to its ability to design.
Anyways, this March first was not remarkable by way of weather. It was a clean, northeastern sixty. Overcast, but not overly-cast. Or overtly-cast. The kind of day where clouds more hang than float. People--well those who were paying attention to the pastoral sky--thought they saw the same clouds the whole day. And in the partly-cloudy day, this was partly true. On the street corner outside the High Hopes Bar, one hotdog vendor said to a customer in a suit that he felt as if the clouds were on fishing lines.
“One day some kid’s gonna reach his palm up to grab a cloud and he’s suddenly going to yanked into heaven and badda bing badda boong soon we’re going to have every lawyer in the tri-state area finding a way to try and sue the heavens for child endangerment.”
“Are we believing sky fishermen now?”
“We? Must be an easier affair than the catfish I catch off the Brooklyn bridge. So it’s more possible than not. Yes we.”
“No way. You must need a long-ass line.”
“Yeah, well we ain’t the ones that got it too bad. Think about how low clouds are from the City of God.”
It was during this piece of discourse Red Rover exited the High Hopes Bar--two or three storefronts down from the hot dog stand depending on whether one counts the dilapidated book store run by a disheveled clerk named Barnabus Rufagus who only sold manuscripts to himself--and Red collected his drink ingredients. Five minutes earlier they had arrived by truck and stuck on the curb. These were the perishables. Olives. Limes. Mango. Some new salts. Snacking crackers. That sort of thing. Red Rover knew the hot dog vendor. His name was Gilgamesh. Red Rover trusted Gilgamesh more than anyone he had ever met before. In fact, Red Rover relied on the hot dog vendor to make sure nobody stole his curbside accoutrements for the five minutes until he got outside. This was his version of trust. And it worked for the both of them. Here’s why:
“Red!” shouted Gilgamesh. “How’s it hanging?” The hot dog vendor winked at his customer. It was a laboring wink. Supersonic slow. Closer to the pace a bear crosses train tracks than much else.
“You know Red Rover?” asked the suit. He was shocked enough for his tie knot to come undone.“No fuckin’ way,” he grunted. There it was. He almost smiled.
“Like the clouds,” said Red. “Tranquilo.” Gilgamesh had been teaching Red some Spanish and he was glad, perhaps more than glad, aptly: more ecstatic than glad to hear Red’s turn of phrase. But Gilgamesh did not know that if Red really wanted to, fluency in Spanish could be learned in a single sleep.
“You see?” said Gilgamesh. “I know him. He knows me. The smallest of worlds.”
“I do.”
“How do you want this dog done?” asked Gilgamesh. And as he always did, barked at outgoing traffic ‘for effect.’ This always made Red laugh. For a hispanic man that top-heavy, shaped like an upside-down pear with two stems instead of one, he sounded closer to a chihuahua than a doberman.
Corporate man studied his sign. “The NOPE way.” He took bills out of his pocket. “Please.”
Red knew that this meant chilli, relish, nacho cheese, and mustard. He had never ordered a dog, though. Gilgamesh interested Red, almost if not more than his own customers. He wanted Gilgamesh to come one night to the High Hopes Bar. Red was unsure why he hadn’t.
“Eight hundred dollars, man,” Gilgamesh had once told him. “That’s too much.”
Red Rover had not understood. It was empty word salad.
“Unless you can make an exception for your good pal.”
Red could not make exceptions. He wasn’t programmed to.
Gilgamesh kept selling dogs at his NOPE stand and Red cocktailed on. So it went.
It’s important to mention NOPE stood for No Pork Ever and was the name of Gilgamesh’s stand.
“Why no pork?” Red had asked the third day he had met Gilgamesh, which was coincidentally the third day he had been alive. It was autumn, the times when people were dressing up as trees dressed down. Oops. Well, more on than alive.
“Do you eat moose?” asked Gilgamesh.
Red didn’t eat anything, but humored the man. “No.”
“Do you eat rattlesnake?”
Red had used a rattlesnake bone the previous night in a mojito as the stick to a floral umbrella. He had enjoyed that handiwork. Regardless, “No,” Red repeated.
“Well I don’t eat pork.”
Red knew the truth, however. Red liked knowing the truth truth and so he always found it. In this case he had found it in the public records of California’s divorce files. Here it was:
Gilgamesh J. was driving a vehicle with Robyn F. as the front passenger on an unknown street in Los Angeles. Gilgamesh J. picked up Robyn F.’s cellular phone and observed a three-page text message from an olympic diver who Robyn F. had a previous sexual relationship with. The text detailed their lascivious getaway two weeks previously. They were outside Pork Emporium.
The question of why Red liked Gilgamesh was a curious one. It made even Red unsure. Perhaps he thought the image of the king of Uruk reincarnated into a fat, hispanic hot-dog vendor who bellowed “WATA WATA ONE DOLLA,” on days above 80. Only this time he was saving people using water rather than saving people from water. How preciously biblical. Perhaps it was because Gilgamesh’s hot dogs were actually good. Red would never know. People said so, though. But the reason Red entertained the most was because Gilgamesh made him feel like an artist.
One sweltering June day, when everything, to Red, smelled like corn, like the city had unnecessarily been shawled in a shucked husk, Gilgamesh made a comment to Red that had made him think.
“You with your cocktails--wish I could try one by the way--and me with my dogs. We’re just out here to please. And people be hard, they be. But we goddamn try our hardest and I’d like to say, on my Mama, I done good. We done well, I maintain. You know, buddy, we’re not so different after all.”
Unfortunately Red was not programmed to make cocktails for non-customers. The thought had never crossed his brain and the comment washed over him like the tide swallowing and spitting a young boogie-boarder: violent, but temporary, yet bruising. He thought about it for four days.
For the first time the answer was no.
On March first, the corporate man walked up the street, past Red, making sure to pick up the jaw he had dropped, and Gilgamesh made another comment to Red that could not go unnoticed. Gilgamesh walked over, but it was more like shambling, and more like doddering and toddling than anything, and put a great big paw on Red’s slender shoulder and said:
“Buddy where you been the past two days? I missed you.”
To Gilgamesh, Red did not skip a beat in answering, but for what felt like an eternity to Red, his internal processing, his wiring was on fire. Red’s hardware joked to his CPU that he was experiencing what Gilgamesh’s customers usually do two to three afters after their dining experience, but none of his parts had an answer to Gilgamesh’s question. Eventually his cooling system spoke:
“Sleeping, Gilgamesh. I was sleeping.”
Red’s customers can begin to arrive at a quarter to ten in the waiting room. And so they did.
Red polished his glasses. He made sure to do some vocal exercises, mouthing the letters and words that most often sat cotton in his throat. These included: U as in rug, L as in colonel, and mischievous. He was a bit rusty with the talking. Look what two days will do to you! Red made a mental note to ask Winston and Harold for less time off. Red loved his job, he really did. In the words of his pal Gilgamesh, there ain’t nothin better than boozin’ with strangers and listenin’ to their stories and you get to do it for a livin’! Red, you lucky scoundrel. You damned dog. Red had never been called a dog before. He thought that was saved for the sexually promiscuous and the naughty. It felt good. He looked down to make sure everything was in order. It was.
The High Hopes Bar is set up as follows:
There is only one door. It is red.
The H.H.B. does not have any windows close to the ground. Its only window is 45 feet in the air and spans horizontally the length of the building. This affords the customers a view out onto the street, but not the other way around.
The bouncer is a man named Cocoa Kingsley. Red can count the times he has met Cocoa Kingsley on his fingers. However, he is punctual, never sick, and always correct with clientele. Cocoa Kingsley stays until the night is over and helps load the broken men and women into the ambulance. Cocoa Kingsley was active duty in Iran for ten years and four tours. Cocoa Kingsley is almost three hundred pounds and taller than the door.
Red is unsure of whether Cocoa is a robot as well. Maybe he’ll ask Winston and Harold the next time they come around, if they ever do.
Cocoa Kingsley carried Dale Shingles like a rag doll because he could not carry himself. To him, Dale Shingles was as light as a paperweight.
The door leads into a small waiting room with six chairs, a one-stall, unisex bathroom, and several copies of Bartender’s Digest. Once you enter the High Hopes Bar and climb the stool there is no going down for the bathroom. In different companies people have peed off the stools, but this has been few and far between, and so usually people go before coming.
When the clock strikes ten, or more correct when Red Rover strikes the bell (which is usually within milliseconds of each other as he is more accurate of a machine than any clock), the guests may leave the waiting room by way of another red door into the bar.
There is always some croon warbling on in the background. Red likes the sound of Janis Joplin or Jerry Garcia. Those of that elk. At first it freaked him out. Why do people like the music they do? He had sunk into it. It was one of the few things he couldn’t explain.
Red can be heard singing sometimes, but only by Cocoa when he’s early to his shift. Red has a beautiful voice. He does not know this.
The room is small. When guests enter they can barely see the top of Red Rover’s black hair. What they do see is six wood stools arranged around a bar. One stool to the left of the bar, four in the middle stretch, and one to the right. On the floor there are two decorations because they are Red’s four favorite objects combined.
There are koi fish in cauldrons, which Red delights in feeding with his small nibbly crackers he serves every night. This is, literally, koi fish swimming in cauldrons. Red has koi named one, two, three, and four.
The second piece of decoration is a harp in the shape of a peacock, the strings of which are feathers from the same bird. It’s more ornamental than instrumental, but Red loves it. It was a gift from Harold’s wife. It is important to Red to mention Winston is single.
After having enough human interaction, Red can see why Winston is single and Harold is not.
Behind the bar, which is, of course, the most important part, is Red’s liquor collection. This collection is as expansive as it is expensive. No rules in this house. Zilch zip nada.
Behind the bar is one other thing, the whereabouts of which only Red knows. It is a collection of the tips Red has collected over the years. In the beginning he would throw away money because he really had no use for it, but he has taken to jarring it. Altogether he has over one-hundred thousand dollars in currencies such as the yen, the yuan, pesos, pounds, and even sand dollars. Maybe, Red thinks, he will give it to Winston. Or Harold. Or Cocoa. Or Gilgamesh.
March 1st Red looked sharp. Dumb sharp as Gilgamesh would say, although Red is only guessing that’s how Gilgamesh would say it, as Red has heard Gilgamesh use dumb as an adjective for ‘very’ exactly sixteen thousand four hundred and nineteen times, but has only heard him use the word sharp once. And that was to describe the knife he once used to mug a man in Morocco. Red decided Gilgamesh was the most interesting human he had ever met. Ever will meet. Red was a little loosy-goosy with that destiny stuff. But he thought who wasn’t? Certainly not anyone he had met. Although what Red didn’t know was that his customers were the kind destined to believe in destiny. The rich love that kind of self-congratulation.
When Red struck the bell at ten, his guests took a little while longer to enter than usual. And even more unusually, Cocoa entered with them carrying one of the men who was wailing on his back. Cocoa looked like a father burping his baby.
“Sorry, Red,” Cocoa said. But Cocoa more husked than said things, like it took him effort to move his lips and lungs. “Buddy’s a bit belligerent here already.”
“If you think this is belligerent you ain’t seen nothin yet!” said the man. Red looked at his list of guests and immediately guessed by the hand gestures and accent this was Velocity Vincente. Matching the name was pure statistics to Red and numbers never lie.
“Huh,” said Cocoa, “Well, Red, I’ll see you around. Have a good night.”
He was so polite! Humans are never that polite! He had to be a robot, thought Red.
“And this probably won’t be the last time I carry you tonight,” Cocoa said to Velocity. Cocoa laughed like applause and exited in the same door he came in from.
Huh, thought Red. Maybe he isn’t a robot.
Anyways, usually Red’s guests spend a while on what he calls the first floor admiring two and four (one and three are less pretty, but no less loved) as well as the harp. What happened next, however, was definitely unexpected for Red, which was two things at once.
First, Velocity Vincente turned to the only woman of the group, who Red guessed to be Auden Elliot. Red had research Ms. Elliot and came to know she was a famous actress in adult movies. That’s all he knew: the basics. He needed to understand a little about his guests so that he could direct conversation, but not so much that he knew everything. Red had never seen a movie before, but knew quite a few actors and actresses. He expected to be able to have a great talk with her, and his first question was going to be what the difference between an adult movie and a regular movie was. He had never heard that term and was excited for some gripping drama, things unsafe for the eyes of the children of the world.
Anyways, Velocity Vincente turned to Ms. Elliot and said, “I cannot believe the way he treated me! Outrageous!”
“I know, baby,” purred Ms. Elliot. “I know. Come here, baby, it’s going to be alright, baby.” Red didn’t have to see the kiss to hear it. It was loud. It was sloppy. Most of all. it was surprising.
Velocity Vincente, for lack of a better word, was a toad of a human being. Bulbous, cantankerous, and constantly sopping, mopping away at his brow with a handkerchief that had to be wrung of moisture by 2 PM and was brown by the time he went to bed. On the other hand, Ms. Elliot was a gazelle of a human being. Tall, with slender legs, curvy in places Red had come to learn were attractive (although this always confused him), and lips so full they looked like they were carrying something. Or at least could be drag a tiller across a field of cabbage. Ha! thought Red. His sense of humour was only growing. Despite this, Ms. Elliot was definitely beautiful by human standards. And here Red stood, watching her lean down to kiss Velocity Vincente who immediately began groping the parts of her he could reach.
What.
Red’s view of the situation was disrupted when his first guest had finished his climb up the stool and sat down on the second seat to the right in the middle section of the bar. This was unusual for two reasons as well--what a day for twos! This was because most of the time people are wary to start their climb up the stools, only starting when they hear Red’s reassurance, the calm, silky baritone that Red has heard he owns. The second reason this was unusual was because out of the man’s left pocket came a manila folder, the inside of which had a tablecloth, the inside of which had six spoons the man laid in front of him. This was when Red realized who the man was--Melvin Kelvin, the spoon designer.
“Pass them out,” said Melvin. Melvin had a reedy voice. Like it was chilly in the bar--which Red knew it was not. He controlled the temperature, he did. Controlled everything. Melvin Kelvin’s voice wobbled, whistled the tune of a windchime in the wind, as though he was in a perpetual wind tunnel. Or scared.
“This ones for you,” Melvin said to Red, and gave him a spoon with a ruby handle. It was nice. Real nice. Red loved it.
“Why thank-”
Melvin cut Red off as though he wasn’t even there. Red then realized he hadn’t made eye contact yet. Strange. Red learned eye contact his second week. “And this one’s for me.” Melvin, out of his right pocket, materialized another spoon, plainer than the rest. It was a simple spoon with no engravings or carvings or gemstones. The only thing special about the spoon was its twinkle. If Red threw it high enough he was sure it could replace a star in Orion’s belt. Melvin looked at it. Well, look does not display the intensity by which he peered at the spoon. It was like a chrome dissection. He materialized a handkerchief out of some pocket that Red could only guess the location of and began intensely cleaning the spoon.
“Please pass these out,” said Melvin to the spoon more than Red. “It should be pretty obvious to which guests they go.”
Now, Red had seen his fair share of eccentrics. He had met Gilgamesh, he had to remind himself, and that man could charm a raccoon into paying for a hot dog. But this, this was going to be different.
Once the other five guests saw Melvin’s progress they soon clambered up the stools as well, and Red opened the evening at 10:11 with a clink of his new spoon on glass, and the joke he always used:
“So everyone welcome to the High Hopes Bar. I’ve met many people in here and I hope this batch is equally as good! Bad cookies still got sugar in em after all.”
Red made sure to make eye contact with each of his guests. Melvin refused. Or it was more he was oblivious. He had to unstick his eyes from Auden Elliot, however. It was tough to stop looking. Like shoes from a piece of sidewalk gum.
“See, one of my funniest guests was this guy named Shlomo Cohen and he was about as Jewish as they came,” that’s usually where Red paused ‘for effect.’ At first he never really understood this ‘for effect,’ but after spending time with the barking Gilgamesh and watching the nervous smiles dance out onto the lips of his guests during the joke, he began to understand, and has since tried. “And by this I mean he was a mohel. You may be asking what a mohel is. It’s a man that performs brisses.” When Red told this joke the first few nights it was bad. Bad, bad. He was just programmed to do it. He didn’t know what brisses were--or babies for that matter. His ‘for effect’ was bad. Real trash. But now Red liked to think he got it, understood how to play the game of synapses, interactions, and reactions. And it worked.
“Anyways,” Red continued, “Shlomo’s business was quite successful. He did at least four brisses a week and he was good at it. Had real great yelp reviews--you guys know the dude who does circumcisions has to have a yelp. How else are you gonna trust him?”
All six laughed. They always did.
“But what concerns me is what the ratings mean. I mean five stars, yeah man, you gave our son a rockin’ package. One star: ‘fuck dude somethings real messed up here. He’s peein’ like an old man at 10 weeks.’ But three stars? What could that possibly be? Oh, his dick is just plain ugly. That’s just sad and also besides the point. So one day a man comes into Shlomo’s shop all confused.
He says, ‘I want to buy a clock.’
And Shlomo he says, ‘A clock? We don’t sell clocks here!”
‘Then what do you do?’
‘I perform brisses!’
‘Well then why do you have clocks in your window?’ says the man.
And Shlomo responds, ‘What else do you want me to put in my window?’”
All six erupt. Red had done a good job this time, especially emphasizing else, wait for it, ‘for effect.’
Red’s first drink of the night was a personal concoction he called ‘The Sassy.’ Red came up with most of his own drinks. Winston had done a great job with programming creativity. Red often appreciated his creators. He liked being on much more than he liked being off.
American harvest vodka, pomegranate juice, muddled basil, lime, and a splash of manuka honey. Red was getting right into it; it was a slow open for the night. Not the worst he had seen, but it could be better. Usually his guests were already speaking to each other, but Velocity Vincente and Auden Elliot were fondling each others knees, Melvin Kelvin was trying to see fortunes in his spoons, and Rejdjello had taken out a notebook and was beginning a harsh scribble. Only Gideon Keats and Addison Alamari were speaking. He began his usual greetings, asking what his guests would like to be called. The seating arrangement, from his right (back to the window) to his left (facing the window), was as follows: Gideon Keats--to be called Gideon, Addison Alamari--firmly Addison, Melvin Kelvin--settling, almost undecidedly, for Melvin, Velocity Vincente--a confident--perhaps with a bit too much spit, or was that sweat?--Velocity Vincente, Auden Elliot--Ms. Elliot (wink), and Rejdejllo--pronounced Rej-d-yellow. Red was a pleaser. He was great with names, too. But he guessed he was made to be.
Red Rover asked them to just call him Red.
Red passed out the spoons with ‘The Sassy.’ They were quite clear to him for some reason. Gideon got the opal inlay and some Hebrew lettering, Addison had a ladle, Melvin with his shiny spoon, Velocity Vincente was given a teaspoon--the easiest of them, Auden Elliot had an all gold spoon with an elegant handle, and Rejdjello was outfitted with a sugar spoon, the handle of which turned into a capped pen; Rejdjello thanked me, swapped out his other pen, and was too intent on writing to hear me say the spoons came from Melvin. They got to stirring. They got to sipping.
A collective “Wow.”
“You know old chaps, well none of you is old yet and none of us is old friends, so I guess I should just call yous chaps, but that would be a bit impersonal of me,” Velocity Vincente blundered on.
Half past ten and things were looking rough. It was still the first round, though, and Red had to remind himself he’d seen worse: once after the third round a woman by the name of Stella Rosella gave birth on the stool all the way to the left. That was the first time anyone had given birth in the High Hopes Bar and Harold and Winston, despite the many calls for sanitary concerns, couldn’t fault Red. He had never seen a pregnant woman before and didn’t know they couldn’t drink. Red suspected in the hours afterwards, her husband was drinking for her. That was a night of firsts, it was. That was the first time Red had seen a baby. That was the first time Red had been asked to hold a baby. He didn’t know humans could get that slimy. That was the first time Red signed anyone with a sharpie. That was the first time Red used the pair of shears he owned to splice bananas to...yknow...cut the umbilical cord. And, finally, that was the first and last time a stool had been replaced.
“What is is honey?” purred Ms. Elliot. She was looking straight at Red. She licked her spoon.
“What a relief it is to be sitting here on solid ground.”
“We’re fourty five feet up in the air, dude,” said Gideon.
“Yeah what kind of land you been standing on?” said Red.
Nobody laughed. Huh.
“Well at the last restaurant we were at…” started Velocity Vincente.
“Oh honey,” said Ms. Elliot, “please no more about the table.” She looked dead at Velocity Vincente, “You spoke so much about this in the cab the driver he got so frustrated he just got out!” Ms. Elliot looked at Gideon now, “We were in front of a stop sign!” Then at Red, “And I had to drive us here even though I was a bit tipsy.”
Rejdjello laughed. Laughed hard. Swallowed his left fist laughing. But he just kept scribbling with his right hand.
“No. No. No.” said Velocity Vincente. “They need to know the madness.” Velocity Vincente spit on Red’s lapel. He flicked the glob into the rum rack. It was greenish. Yuck.
“Yeah I need to know the madness,” said Rejdjello.
“The madness,” said Melvin.
“Well then all of yous shut up and lemme tell you somethin’ atrocious. Well, me and the Ms. here were at this little, authentic Italian joint down there in Brooklyn. Nothing yous would know about.”
“Yeah?” said Addison. His elbow was on the bar. He tapped his temple with his index finger. Bad sign, Red learned body language first. He should know. Correction: he knew.
“A hole in the wall. So small they only let mice through.”
“So that’s how you got in,” said Addison. Good thing Velocity Vincente was going full Hamlet on this one; he didn’t hear him at all. Gideon was smiling his face off.
“And so I was hearing through the grapevine, but more the telephone line than the grapevine, that this little place was supposed to be bona fide romantic. Kinda love you can only get in Italy. Or from your Nonna. Checkerboard tablecloths, good bread, lady and the tramp shit. And I was real excited to take the Ms. out for a little spin, yknow, because who wouldn’t?”
Velocity took a thumb to the corner of Ms. Elliot’s lip.
“But we got there and our table had a screw loose! Like I was on some goddamn Herman-Melville-type boat after a whale attack. It was tiltin and tippin like a fat lady on a tea cup ride at any state fair on the left side of the Mississippi. My linguine was falling off my plate! Fell on my trousers! And then I was goddamn fed up of not being fed cuz as yous can imagine it’s hard to stare into the Ms. eyes when the tables creakin’ and grumblin’ like the matresses in a goddamn whorehouse!”
Velocity Vincente, Red noticed, was a master of the simile. Rejdjello was taking some notes.
“And so I went to my waiter and I said, ‘please Waiter, you blue-eyed soul, please give me and the Ms. another table’”
And he says, ‘Sorry sir I can’t we’re all booked.’
And I says, ‘Well just make me a special table.’
And he says, ‘We don’t have none of those.’
And then I’m gettin’ real fiesty so I start imitating him, We don’t have none of those. Cause he did, he did sound like a dog with a runny nose. Slobbery and such.
‘Sir,’ he says like I’m some gentleman. Some gentle man.
And I says, ‘The table’s got a screw loose and you do too.’
And he says, ‘Sir!’ exclamation point and all.
And I says, Sir!.
And he says, ‘I’m not sure what to tell you.’
And I’s says, ‘Well I’m sure. Excuse my Italian, but-’
And then the smart wise guy, the guy with a goddamn tie clip!--Imagine a guy with a fuckin’ tie clip tellin’ me, tellin’ ME, this bullshit in front of my Ms.--says, ‘It’s excuse my French.’
Excuse my French
And he says, ‘It’s excuse my French.’
And I says, ‘Fuck you and your French.’
And he says, ‘4 U-s.’
And I says, ‘What?’ cuz he’s just plain confusin’ me at this point. His shoes were scuffed too and his trousers were untucked, by God he was a mess!
‘4 U-s. Unhelpful, unnecessary, unproductive, and unkind.’
And I says, ‘I got 4 U-s I could shove up your ass so far I could tell you smoke Kools.’
And he says, ‘Excuse your French!’
And I says, ‘Thanks for being excused!’
And that’s when me and the Ms. got kicked out so I’m over here still kinda fumin’ about all that mess.” It was only then Red realized Velocity Vincente had stood up during his speech. He deflated down. “Excuse my French, my love.” Velocity Vincente leaned over and kissed when he could reach on Ms. Elliot, which was the crease of her elbow.
“Wow,” said Gideon.
“Woweeeeeee,” said Melvin. While others had sipped their Sassy, Melvin had used a spoon to drink it and was back at polishing its chrome.
The whole story Ms. Elliot wore the expression Red imagined a lioness having if it was batting around a toad in its palms.
And Red, for the first time in a long time, had nothing to add.
“The answer is Yes,” said Red.
He was supposed to say it. He said it. So it went.
This was in response to Velocity Vincente’s blunt questioning for a second round. It was time anyways--10:47 to be exact. Red liked to wait about 20-25 minutes between rounds. This was to let people fully enjoy their drinks and allow the alcohol to fully set in. Well, he wasn’t sure if he liked to do it or he was programmed to do it. Either one.
Ms. Elliot clapped her hands, “Oh how adorable!” Not picking up on the same collective enthusiasm she restated, “It’s his catchphrase...it’s so cute guys!”
“The cutest,” slied Addison.
“Cutie patootie nice n’ fruity” said Melvin.
“Son, what in the hell are you saying,” said Velocity Vincente. “And what the fuck is you shining that spoon for? It’s damn near blinding me.”
Red stirred together the second drink. This one was a favorite of his, The Open Door Policy.
Passionberry, Mint, Peruvian Pisco, Celery Bitters, crushed and blended pine nuts, mango chunks, pineapple juice, and a lemon wedge served with a small umbrella made of woven coconut hair. Gilgamesh had helped him make those.
That was one of those days where Gilgamesh closed down NOPE and the two of them sat on big ole coolers and looked at the sky. Red remembers what Gilgamesh said that day too. Well, really it’s more correct to say Red remembers everything anybody says.
Gilgamesh said two things when they were on the cooler.
The first was that if he ever found that olympic diver he was going to wring him by the neck, skin him like a deer, and wear his body to the olympic trials to intimidate young. This was not what Red remembered, however. He didn’t particularly like that statement. Red had some preferences, he had learned. Who doesn’t, he guessed. What was unexpected was that Red Rover became fond of a few fashion statements. These were vertical stripes, collared shirts under cashmere sweaters, and the most unusual, no shirt at all. The fashion statement he disliked the most was when people got so drunk they drooled. However, Red didn’t dislike Gilgamesh’s statement either. Gilgamesh was kinda funny and it was somewhere in between. It had a ‘For effect.’
What Red did remember was what Gilgamesh said about the clouds.
“That one looks too damn pleased with itself. No cloud should be that happy.”
“Can clouds be happy?” asked Red.
“It’s called personafribation” said Gilgamesh.
“Personafribation?”
“Yeah personafribation, it’s when you put human stuff like feelings and senses into non-human stuff.”
“So is the cloud human happy?”
“You’re a weirdo, Red, I’ve gotta say it.” Red felt slightly hurt by this. “Human happy, as though there are other forms, I love it.” this made him feel better. “I’d say is after this personafribation it’s much more human happy than it was before. That’s for sure.”
“So clouds can be happy?”
“I don’t see why the hell not,” said Gilgamesh.
Red later learned it was actually ‘personification,’ but Gilgamesh had his heart in the right place. All humans did, after all. On the left side of their chests. Closest Red could consider to his heart was more near his naval.
Red zoned in when he was done stirring Open Door Policy.
Red zoned in!
Red had zoned out!
And when Red did he found himself with a whole new situation.
“Nobody named Melvin has ever gotten laid” Velocity Vincente said, his hand on Mrs. Elliot’s thigh.
“That has to be untrue,” said Addison.
“You ever gotten laid, Melvin?”
“Lay off him,” said Gideon
“Boy, if these new spoons aren’t great. Aren’t shiny. Aren’t tip-top, mip mop, then I’ll for sure be getting laid.” said Melvin.
“You ain’t makin no sense.”
“Laid off,” said Melvin and he began to scrubscrubscrub even faster.
“I’m gonna take that as a no, well don’t fear the Ms. here knows lots of people, lots of connections, we’ll be sure to help you out.”
“None of them can shine spoons like me, I’m sure,” said Melvin.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, see-”
“Criss cross applesauce you’re not my fucking boss.”
Red turned around and began handing out Open Door Policy. People began stirring. People began sipping.
A collective “No way.”
“Now I’ve got a question” said Velocity Vincente.
“Always a dangerous,” said Addison.
“I want to hear what’s on Melvin’s mind,” said Red. He needed to open up the floor.
“Melvin’s mind! Melvin’s mind! Melvin’s mind!” Addison, Gideon, and Red took up the chant.
“Well big coincidence, but my question’s for Marvin,” said Velocity Vincente. He burped.
“It’s Melvin,” Red said.
“Yeah whatever.” Velocity Vincente had finished his Open Door Policy and, as the name suggests, was flung wide open. “Why in the hell did you give me a teaspoon, Melvin?”
“Nations can be reflected in silverware,” answered Melvin.
“That ain’t answerin’ my question.”
“And you can be reflected in a teaspoon.”
“Spoon burn!” said Gideon. “Up top Melvin.” Melvin didn’t react.
Red didn’t know what to say. But, for the first time, Red was tongue-tied. He didn’t know how to say. It was overpowering. Red could smell--and if the room smelled like anything it smelled like awkward.
Gilgamesh had taught him that word.
“And you know my ex wife sent me a Christmas card last week,” Gilgamesh said. “She’s pregnant now and it’s going to be twins. The funny thing about love is that the more people you love in the present the less you love in the past. You just don’t don’t have the energy to remember.”
“I guess there has to that one person whose only role is to teach you heartbreak for the first time,” said Red. He had heard one of his guests say it.
“You’re right, Red,” said Gilgamesh. And it felt good to be correct on the topic of love. “But the thing is I got no pictures of me to send back. And my ego just can’t grab a bottle of booze with my insecurities so I won’t take no more. The only picture I got is of me and the catfish I caught in July, that twelve pounder I told you about frying down in Nantucket. It’s a greasy picture: I look sticky and the catfish is wrigglin’ about and I got this waning-moon smile. Awkward.”
“So Ms. Elliot?” Red began. He didn’t know why.
“Hmmmmm?” Ms. Elliot licked her spoon.
“I saw that you’re an actress. What kind of movies do you like to act in?”
“Oh this and that.”
“A lot of actors and actresses pass by here they’re always very interesting. Very animated.”
“Oh yeah?” Ms. Elliot said. “I would say I’m animated.”
“So where’d you get your start?” Red was back. He was genuinely interested. Or he was programmed to be, but that thought always paperweighted the thoughts he liked to set free to the wind. So he pushed the thought aside. “I’ve known many to get their start in Shakespearean theater or improv. Musical even.”
“The Ms. makes music alright,” said Velocity Vincente. He was positively hammered and spitting everywhere.
“Oh,” Ms. Elliot said. “That’s not the kind of acting I do.”
“Yeah what exactly are adult videos?” asked Red. He thought it an innocent question. Maybe she’ll say they’re just too boring for kids: like about market economics and trade relations with China. Maybe they were too violent for kids. Red realized he had made a mistake when Addison giggled and Ms. Elliot went quiet. Then she went red.
“She does porn, silly,” said Melvin.
Velocity Vincente stood up on his stool, which wobbled so precariously. Red hoped, briefly, he would spill. Red wanted the night to be over. It was a mess. But Velocity Vincente remained standing, leaned over the bar, and booped Red’s nose. “Yeah, silly. Porn.”
There was a rural silence. There was only sipping and scribbling, both of which were coming from Rejdjello’s corner. He was the only one not done with his drink.
“Oi,” said Velocity Vincente. Like always. “You gonna speak or are you gonna write?”
“Let him write,” said Gideon. “He looks so focused he’s probably working on something great.” Rejdjello gave him a nod.
“Yeah, yeah,” Velocity Vincente said, “But I’m here for a good story and it feels like we’re a man down.”
“I can speak,” said Rejdjello. “What do you want to know?”
“What have you been writing?”
“Well I can’t show you that.” And before Red could say anything, even quicker than Red could pour a shot of rum, which is quite fast, Velocity reached over and snatched Rejdjello’s notebook.
“Give that back,” said Addison. “Shit’s private.”
“Yeah we didn’t give, pardon what I’m going to say Ms. Elliot, your wife no flack for what she does,” said Rejdjello. “Don’t grief me.”
“Shiny spoons,” said Melvin. “Shiny, shiny, moons.”
“Ha!” shrieked Velocity Vincente.
Velocity Vincente was laughing at what Rejdjello had written, which was exactly two things. He promptly took liberty to read them.
(In)mature women with (in)mature views on sex
Kibbutz dogs, cyprus trees, fist-sized frogs, my Buddy Cyrus, and his bees.
“I like the second one a lot,” Red said. And he meant it.
“Yeah what’s it for?” asked Gideon.
“Well I’m not sure, but it seems more like a title than anything.”
“That’s a long title,” said Velocity Vincente.
“Long, long, right and wrong,” said Melvin. “I like the rhyme.”
“Yeah even in that you got lots to work with,” said Addison. “I’d give it a read.”
“Are there going to be mature women?” said Velocity Vincente.
“Well I suppose one or two.”
“With mature opinions on sex?”
“Views. Mature views.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The way I wrote it.”
Red had written one thing in his life. And he had read it to Gilgamesh.
There were many of us who were getting into growing. It was the right time, it was. And, yeah, of course of the personal kind, but more of the medicinal. But those days shit had to be good. No excuse. I mean those olden-day rubes might have gotten away with trash dope what with claiming to be illiterate and such, but not me, no sir no sir. What with the internet and all we got more resources than paved roads!
And to us nothing much mattered ‘cept the pot, which was fine because the pot mattered quite a big deal by the way. That’s the way I liked it.
Red thought Gilgamesh would enjoy it. He knew Gilgamesh was big into the dope, saw him smoke out of these great big things the size of fingers. What Gilgamesh said, however, threw Red off balance, made him run back into the High Hopes Bar and dry-heave onto a tequila rack.
“I like it,” said Gilgamesh, “Believe me I do. I couldn’t have written that. I just feel like you’re trying to hard to be something you’re not.”
Red never wrote again.
The conversation, for the first time that night, took a good swing. And Red was glad.
“And so where do you find yourself writing most?” asked Ms. Elliot.
“I like being outside,” said Rejdjello.
“Designing spoons outside is great too,” said Melvin. He was drawing something on a napkin. “Natural dazzle’s not something to be messed with.”
“You know?” said Addison. “You might be one of my favorite people.”
“And how do you think writing has changed?” asked Gideon. “From what I’ve been reading, which trust me isn’t very much, and pardon my uninformed opinion, people are trying to be more colloquial. As if reading has gotten more tough.”
“I mean it’s not untrue. I’ve been trying to sling more slang, but my arm’s not near good enough, my ear’s got no rhythm, my mouth can’t find shit new enough to say, and my eyes plain can’t seem to find anyone else who would want to listen.”
The third and fourth round passed without a hitch. The third round Red went plain, a woody whiskey and for the fourth drink, Red stirred the Pharaoh's Sorrow. He borrowed from the passover plate on this one. Slightly salted water, parsley, Botanist gin, sesame vanilla vermouth, cherry reduction, and a peach pit.
Addison applauded him, Rejdjello called him a wizard, even Velocity Vincente grumbled approval.
The answer to their requests, as usual, was yes.
And so it went.
Thee fifth round came at 11:36 and Red made his favorite, and best drink. Classic mojito, no going wrong with that.
Gideon was speaking about his time as a pastor’s child. He was drunk, oh boy, he was drunk.
“And so I said, ‘Do you think Mary was ever wished her baby was not Jesus--I mean I imagine postpartum depression is a bitch, but even worse when three random dudes come into the stable you just gave birth in--probably bloody hay n’ shit around, Joseph trying to keep from crying about the miracle of childbirth when he’s literally, historically been the most notable cuckold in the human race--trying to give gifts to your baby. That’s just creepy.’”
Gideon continued after a long pull from the metal straw of his mojito, “And I then was like, ‘and don’t you see how wack baby Jesus looks in every single painting of him? He either looks like some anorexic alien bishops would not be able to keep their hands off way too buff of a baby, which I guess the bishops would not be able to keep their hands off either. It’s a fuckin’ double whammy’”
Melvin’s jaw dropped. Rejdjello began furiously scribbling. Even Velocity Vincente seemed amused.
“And so what on earth did the Pope say to that?” said Addison.
“Get out.”
Red had to admit, he laughed at that one.
Sixth round and Velocity Vincente was trying to give a toast, but he was puddling. And drool on the bar in front of him was too. It was the time of night where stools began to wobble, the cherry wood creaking on the linoleum below. Ms. Elliot cleaned the drool with napkins she extracted from her purse. Her hand touched Red’s when she gave it to him to throw away in the garbage pail by his right foot.
Red’s sixth drink was something he called Lady of the Night: Bombay Sapphire Gin, blackberry liqueur, fresh lime juice, fresh blackberries, cane syrup, and sticks of black licorice.
“I wanna hear the funniest thing that happened,” said Velocity Vincente. His hand was in the air holding the glass.
“What do you mean by that?” said Red.
“I wish I knew what the funniest thing that happened was,” said Addison. “I’d probably laugh my gut open.”
“To you,” Velocity Vincente finished. It became obvious why his hand went up, I mean it had to come down, and it ended coming down in a pointed index finger. Although slow and laboring, it made it.
“To me?” said Rejdjello.
“Yes, to you.”
Rejdjello sat for a moment. Everyone sat for a moment. Red thought Gilgamesh would have loved this question. He would have shot off into something, anything, anywhere, really.
“I suppose today I went down to the pier.”
“You suppose?” said Velocity Vincente
“Today I went to the pier.”
“This ain’t gonna be funny.”
“Shhhhhhh, honey.”
“Cross youre heart hope to die this is funny.”
“I guess.”
“Say it,” said Velocity Vincente.
“Cross my heart.” Rejdjello wavered.
“Hope to die.”
“But I really don’t” said Rejdjello.
“Just say on my mama then. A bit weaker, but it’s all the same I guess.”
“Anyways by the pier I seen this couple. End of the pier by the fishermen and stuff. And they were practically kissing the sea if they weren’t kissing each other.”
“How old were they?” asked Gideon.
“Probably like 18-19. Young. And-”
“Races?” asked Velocity Vincente.
“Really?” said Addison.
“Nevermind him,” said Ms. Elliot
“I mean I guess if it matters the girl was hispanic and the guy was black.”
“Okay continue I got myself my picture.”
“And so the dude was real close to the girl. He was basically nibbling on her ear. And she was smiling away twirling her hair with her finger.”
“That’s that lovey dovey crap,” said Melvin.
“Like you would know,” said Velocity Vincente.
“Exactly Melvin,” said Rejdjello, “Very lovey-dovey. And so the girl then leans into the guy and whispers something into his ear and that’s when his eyes went wide. Like sand dollars or somethin.’ And I weren’t really paying attention until then.”
“Bullshit you weren’t paying attention,” said Velocity Vincente.
“Okay but get this. Eyes go wise. Saucers under this man’s brow and she’s leaning in, laying it on thick, and he has his hand on her waist and then BOOM.”
“A bomb?” said Melvin.
“Does it goddamn look like our city has been blown up?” said Velocity Vincente.
“Not a bomb. The fishermen to their left goes to cast underhand and hits the two of them with a bloody fish head. And they’re freaking out, spitting everywhere, pulling at their tongues. That kind of shock can be measured by volts.”
“Funny,” said Velocity Vincente
“Shut up.”
The sixth round was a plain shot of vodka. This was when Red started to make the night challenging. Gilgamesh had told him to do it.
“Put a little razzle dazzle energy into them rich folk,” he said. “They ain’t scared of much but death and you’re the closest to a goddamn grim reaper I know. You’re kill count must be higher than some soldiers from Iraq.”
Red had never thought about it that way. He was a killer, a literal killing machine.
“Cheer up, I know you don’t do it on purpose.”
Gilgamesh paused.
For effect.
“Or do you?”
“Oh quit playin’,” said Red--one of Gilgamesh’s favorite turns of phrase. He had used it on Red the first time when Red told him one day in September the previous night a Saudi prince had died in the High Hopes Bar before the drinking even began. He was afraid of heights and had a heart attack halfway up the stool..
“I’m only jokin’ buddy, only jokin.”
At 12:03 Melvin began to cry. Sob and heave and throw his sentiments around. Red didn’t like wet sentiments, he didn’t. He thought maybe it’s because he didn’t have any of that mud. He hated thinking that.
“What’s wrong now?” said Velocity Vincente. He had been smooching Ms. Elliot for the past five minutes, citing alcohol as a stimulant for his attitude and
(pause)
(‘for effect’)
libido.
“I just don’t know,” said Melvin.
“Don’t know what?” asked Addison.
“What came first?”
“The chicken or the egg?” said Gideon, “Well that one’s simple-”
“No! nO! NO!” said Melvin, head in his hands. It was the first time the whole night Red noticed he wasn’t holding his spoon. “The spoon or the shovel!”
“I’ve never heard that one before,” said Red. Rejdjello began to scribble.
“I mean did they see and shovel and say, by golly we can use that to eat, and shrink it to the size of a spoon or did they see a spoon and say jeez louise we can use that outside and expand it to a larger size.”
“I have no clue,” said Addison.
Red didn’t either, but his mind had its hands in its pockets and was wandering elsewhere. Gilgamesh once told him he had a ceremonial shovel.
“And what’s it for.”
“I’m going to bury that olympic diver so far in the ground and then lay chili on top of him until he burns to death or gets eaten by ants.”
Seventh round and Red was passing out classic Martinis, fresh olives and all. He also laid out nibbling crackers. The people get hungry, they do!
Addison was the least drunk out of all. Melvin looked loopy and Rejdjello’s handwriting was straying off the table and onto the cherry wood of the bar.
He left a singular ‘is.’
“I want to hear some predictions for the future,” said Ms. Elliot.
Addison was the first to answer. “I red this crazy thing today about something those guys from Harold and Winston Manufacturing in Winnepeg are working on.”
“And what’s that?” asked Gideon.
“This thing they’re calling a memory extractor.”
Ah, Winston and Harold, thought Red. Those two geniuses.
“What does it do?” said Rejdjello.
“Apparently stick it in the brain of anyone dead and you can see the past 24 hours of their life.”
“No way,” said Velocity Vincente. “How would that even work?”
“No clue.”
“Well I don’t want that,” said Velocity Vincente. “People cling to life too much already. I mean look at him!” Velocity Vincente pointed at Rejdjello, “He’s clinging on like a sloth to a branch just content writing about it!”
“It’s just a great appreciation,” said Rejdjello.
“It’s much more fun to be disenchanted with earth, though,” said Velocity Vincente. “Life is much sweeter this way.”
“I know what I want for the future,” said Melvin.
“And what is that?” purred Ms. Elliot.
“I wish I could start Frank Zappa and The Mother Fuckers. And it wouldn’t be the real Frank Zappa I mean man’s dead, of course not, but some sort of robot replica and we’d play and play and spin and spin. I’d like to mend the world that way.”
Addison laughed. “That’s more a wish than a prediction.”
“If we muddle the two, it’s more bound to come true, correct?” said Melvin.
Red liked this. He would tell Gilgamesh.
The eighth round started as the clock hit 12:32. Red served a Knee Jerk Reaction: Rye whiskey, calvados, amontillado sherry, sweet potato, chicory pecan, and pimento bitters.
Everyone was off on their own conversation. Velocity Vincente and Rejdjello were arguing about something and Addison had pulled Melvin who was too meek to say no and Gideon who was too drunk to say anything into an embrace that almost knocked them off their stools.
Red was ready to flip the ‘Days since last accident sign at any moment’ until Ms. Elliot laid her hand on Red’s
“You’re very handsome you know that?”
“Am I?” said Red. Red had no idea what was happening. He hadn’t this whole night.
“I like that you act like you aren’t”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’ve been giving you the eyes all night surely you noticed?”
This was the first time anyone had said anything like this to Red. Red had noticed Ms. Elliot looking at him, but what were the eyes? Didn’t people always use their eyes to look at others?
“I-I”
“I promise I don’t bite,” said Ms. Elliot. “Unless you’re into that.”
Red had absolutely no clue what to say; He found himself turning red on the inside and out. His cooling system overclocked.
“I’m very good,” Ms. Elliot.
The only thing Red could muster, “What about Velocity Vincente.”
Then Red realized he had other guests. This was the first time he had ever focused on one more than the others. Oh no oh no oh no, holistic thinking. Red needed to remind himself. Holistic thinking. Red thought Velocity Vincente might be angry, so angry, that he was, he had never used this word to describe himself before, flirting with his partner. He was used to customers flirting with each other. I mean this was the spot where the duke of Earl met his match: a Japanese billionaire named Rie who owned the largest Asian milk business.
“Oh he’s into that sort of thing,” said Ms. Elliot.
Ms. Elliot touched Red’s hand again, gave him a full-toothed smile (Red had time to count all the pearly white pews), and when Red slipped his wrist into his pocket he realized she had given him her hotel room key.
The Ninth round never began.
This was because Velocity Vincente’s argument with Rejdjello reached critical mass.
“I hope you lose all your teeth,” said Rejdjello, “And spend the rest of your days eating cold custard with a spoon that is too small in an Alabama bungalow!”
Hold on, boys, stop your bickering I got a question for the future. “It’s about these robots they’ve been making. After today’s intimate experience I’ve been thinking. These robots,” said Addison, “You’d never think they could steal artisan jobs?”
“Oh god no,” said Red. ‘I hope goddamn not.”
“You don’t think that would be interesting?” asked Addison.
Red struggled. He knew it would be interesting, but he was programmed to say, “Naw, no way. It would take out the human interaction. That’s what makes it special.”
“You would think so,” said Addison.
“Yeah nowadays these robots be smart,” said Gideon.
“You wouldn’t want to be served alcohol by someone like that, though?”
Red paused
For effect
“Would you?”
Their conversation ended as a sloshed Velocity Vincente, “Is human interaction what makes this place special?” He stood up on his stool in his own Eureka moment, “I know the problem. I’ve known it all along. The problem with everything”
“Man’s about to solve world hunger over here,” said Rejdjello.
“You ever venture into art?
“Writing is art”
“Like real art” said Velocity Vincente
“I’m not sure what you mean”
“I mean something raw! Something that doesn’t blush when I look at it.”
“In expectation of a broken elbow--a pill of Xanax, three large rocks, and a serving spoon for mashed potatoes hung from the ceiling by frayed rope,” said Melvin.
“That’s what I mean, boy!”
“Did you just come up with that?” asked Addison, but Melvin was back to shining his spoon.
“We need irreality!” cried Velocity Vincente. “Don’t you understand? I came here because I want to feel like I’ve made a friend in war and he’s died. I want intrigue to be here, not the promise of it in twenty years when you finally have the courage to write this down. You’re not doing anything interesting, rebelling against anything, or breaking norms! It’s like Chekhov said, all you’re doing is plodding along because this is life and you’re content with it because you write what you know. You don’t have a good story. You’re a writer! You take others because you’re empty inside!”
“Chekhov this, chekhov that, what does it matter when we’re all drunk anyways?” said Addison.
“That’s the point,” said Velocity Vincente, “We’re drunk. I need something new! I’m sick of this big game, this big joke with all these boring blokes. I need freedom!”
Rejdjello flung his notebook at the ground.
Following its trajectory with childlike glee, some sort of triumph, was when Velocity Vincente fell.
“I’m not going to the hospital with him,” said Rejdjello.
All six had gone down to the first floor, even Red. This was the first time he had done so after someone fell.
It had not given him joy to turn the sign today. It had not at all.
“Me either,” said Addison.
“Look at it. Fractured skull, like brain jelly,” said Gideon. He put a toe to his head. “Oops I’m sorry Ms. Elliot, I’m probably being super disrespectful.”
Red had studied body language. Ms. Elliot, she may have looked sad, but she really wasn’t. Really, really wasn’t.
“Look at this,” said Melvin. “It’s broken in a close pattern of the tigris and the euphrates! Like a DNA double helix. My friend, my old pal’ Dale Shingles died here the exact same way. I was at his wake and saw it. Now that was a much cleaner break I tell you. This guy had some sloppy brains!”
“That’s a blabbermouth way of putting it!” cried Ms. Elliot as she ran out of the building and into the night.
“You think she’s going to wait for the ambulance?” said Gideon.
“No chance,” said Rejdjello. “She didn’t love him. She loved herself.”
“Did you say Dale Shingles?” said Red. “I remember him. He had the most spectacular dive. Unafraid. Like suddenly the whole earth had turned to water.”
“Yeah he previously was an olympic diver,” said Melvin. “Shame it was. He had twins.”
And then it clicked for Red. Well, everything clicked for Red, but it really clicked. Deep somewhere in his naval or perhaps his feet or perhaps his brain, something felt different.
“What is that feeling when you can’t shake something?” Red snapped his fingers. “Like what’s the name of it.” Red had no idea. He needed to reach out.
“Guilt?” suggested Gideon.
“No, not exactly. It’s not bad, like the world comes into focus and you can’t help but stand there and feel like some eternal witness to it.”
“That’s sounds like life, bud,” said Addison.
“Except,” said Melvin, and this was an important except, for Red had never really truly known what happened when people closed their eyes, “You have a piece of time and you get to dress it how you like. That’s it. People only got so much fuel and some spend it on nonsense. That’s the essence of what Zappa said and man’s a genius. We have to trust geniuses don’t we? More than we trust ourselves perhaps? The world keeps going. It has to.”
And Red thought about what he was going to tell Gilgamesh. Some days he thought the man’s oil was hate. For Dale Shingles, for pork, for traffic, etc. Red knew that Gilgamesh wanted, truly wanted, to one day be walking, hold out his hand, and be hook-lined-and-sinkered into heaven. Straight there. Gilgamesh wanted to be able to quit while he was ahead, even though that was an impossible expectation. Red thought Gilgamesh’s heart may stop right then and there if he knew Dale Shingles had died. And in the High Hopes Bar to boot.
But then, in comparison, at least Red knew what he ran on. Wiring, electricity, ballistic jelly, etc. Was this sanity or was this an excuse? Was there a difference? Between him and Gilgamesh?
“I’ll just put it out there the first step of meditation is to see a different color when you close your eyes,” said Gideon. He took a step back as Velocity Vincente’s blood almost touched his left loafer. “Imagine that kind of control over your universe.”
“I knew this guy,” said Addison, “who said that if he had to pick a piece of space to stare off into for the rest of his life he’d chose the void he sees when he closes his eyes.”
“That sounds like death,” said Red. He hoped he was correct, he had no way of knowing.
“But what’s the real difference between staring at one thing and staring at nothing?” said Rejdjello.
“You’re asking the fundamental question between life and death here,” said Gideon. “Even if you’re staring at one thing it can still move, move you.”
“Well I’d rather stare at this here spoon?”
“What about you, Red?” asked Addison. “Where would you stare?”
Red thought. What would he focus on? Red thought about Gilgamesh and the clouds and one particular piece of discourse they had had one day in January while the snow plows pulled across the city in tight yarns like laboring animals.
“If the snow is free to fall then I’m free to close up shop,” said Gilgamesh. “Enough dogs,” bark, “for one damn day. Fuck this snow and fuck this cart.”
“Wow this is the first time I’ve seen you mad at the sky.” In fact it was the first time Red had seen anyone mad at the sky.
“Well that’s because it’s irrational, but it’s like Camus said, ‘the only way to deal with an unfree’ and absurd, I think he said absurd, anyways, ‘world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It just means the only way I can damn the snow is by closing my cart. I’m miserable and I’d rather be home.” Gilgamesh gathered his belongings. “You want to come along? I got cocoa.” Red nad never been to Gilgamesh’s house. In fact, he had never been to any house.
“I’d rather stay here. I like that you can be mad and happy at the clouds at different times. Personifribation. Right?”
“Yeah,” grumbled Gilgamesh, “Fuck you, clouds, fuck you.”
And on that March 1st, Red
(pause)
‘For effect’
knew the answer.