A WELL-OILED REVOLVER

Upon the stroke of midnight I resolved to be a kinder, gentler funk. To look upon my fellow man with a forgiving heart and open ears. I pledged to ball my anger and frustration toward the public at large into a bitter pill and swallow it without a sound. No longer would I spill my mad ravings on these pages; instead I would let it fester in my guts. I sat on the bar stool staring into the celebrating crowd; each of them intoxicated with the moment as much as the grain alcohol that filled their bellies. Taking a long pull of my darkly brewed beer I glanced at the empty ashtray. I marveled at the pristine lines of sparkling glass-- not a speck of charred tobacco marred it’s basin. It was beautiful, yet I felt compelled to destroy that beauty in an instant with a cigarette. I would have done it too, had I not quit that foul habit. My lungs twinged with blackened longing for the smoke. I told them to fuck off, adding that the big casino was not on my new agenda. My attention turned to one of the many television sets bolted to the walls. It flashed with images of millions celebrating New Years, embracing, dancing and waving American flags. I smiled, and a rush of shameless pride swept through my heart, making the hairs stand on the back of neck. I drained my beer and weaved my way to the restrooms in the back of the bar. A plump older woman threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. “Happy New Year!” she wailed. I smiled and returned the gesture. Not my normal response, but remember: this is the kinder, gentler Funk. When I reached the door, a peculiar thing happened. The arid smoke that filled the air had caused my contact lens to pop out of my left eye. My rat-like reflexes allowed me to capture it before it hit the floor. I held the delicate lens in my hand and tugged at the door. A man on legs too drunk to carry himself stumbled through the door I politely held open. To my left another man propped himself on the far wall and was urinating into the corner while screaming into a cell phone. I turned toward the sinks to find them overflowing with vomit. I clenched the contact lens in my fist and looked at my reflection in the adjacent mirror, watching with morbid fascination as my newly resolved face drained into that of the old Funk. I turned and left the retched lavatory. I was met by two women screeching at each other over the affections of a man. I pushed past them, causing the taller of the two to spill her drink on the shorter. I walked on, hearing their fisticuffs erupt in the narrow hallway. A slight grin creased my face. I found myself again the target of embrace by the pie-faced woman. I stiff-armed her swift approach cold and strode toward the exit. I reached into my eye and plucked from it my remaining contact lens. I flicked it from my finger in the vicinity of a plate of chili fries surrounded by a group of frat boys. I don’t know if it reached the intended target, but I’d like to think it did. Catching the attention of the smarmy bartender, I dug into my wallet. He waved as if he were the answer to all the world’s pain. I tossed $10 on the bar and pushed through the frost-crusted door into the night. I drew in a chest full of frigid air. “You all make me sick, you motherfucking assholes.” Hey, fuck you. At least I quit smoking.