JIM, PAUL SIMON AND MYSELF

The rhino-sized haze doing laps in my kiddie pool consciousness lifts abruptly and the wake hits me like a prizefighter jab to the head. It’s nearly strong enough to push me out of the booth. I'm sitting here drinking in this bar, some bar, some place, and I realize that I am so fucking hungry I might just chew off my own goddamn arm and set out on a holy quest for barbecue sauce. I haven't eaten in two whole days. The jukebox is still playing. Holy shit, is this still my $20? I’m treading a heady mix of alcohol, loneliness and marijuana, not to mention emotion. It knocks me about and colors my world, like dumping a bunch of different dyes into the toilet, flushing it, and thrusting my head in for closer inspection. The laughter at the next table is too loud, too much. It hee-haws its way out of the cannon-like throat of a large, unshaven man with empty eyes and teeth like a horse. He’s wearing a t-shirt which bears his allegiance to some sports team. His laughter is genuine, so my impression of him softens. There's a weird feel in here tonight. Maybe it's just me. More than likely, Mr. Beam and the girls (Mary and Jane) brought it with them. It’s an unsolvable mystery, and trying to capture the feeling with just a pen and paper is futile. Some people are here for a cold one and some are here for a warm something to take home with them. Me? This is it. Somebody slides a new one in front of me. Seems the last one had a hole in it. The fog settles back in like a hunting dog on the porch that thought it heard a strange noise, and I give the toilet a fresh flush. Paul Simon has his “Mother and Child Reunion,” and me, I've got my drink. Selah.