Napkin Notes

“Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.” W.B. Yeats

I am surrounded by beards, moustaches, and knit hats, 80’s style glasses, and short bangs, wannabe DJs and rockers, and the sad, stale scene of PBR mixed with a hint of weed.

I am writing on a stack of napkins at a table across from the bar.

What a fucking cliché.

All that is missing is a quill pen.

Or, typewriter.

And yes, I realize the hypocrisy of making fun of hipsters while frequenting one of their establishments. But in fairness, I was coming here long before it was the “in” – or even ironic – thing to do. Before I was washed up

But is it even possible to be washed up if you were really nothing to begin with?

So rather than the cliché douchebag hipster, I’m the douchebag in the skinny tie, Banana Republic pants, and Kohl’s dress shit, sitting in front of a stack of cocktail napkins, writing all this drivel down, because I left my composition book at home.

What would look worse, anyway? The asshole writing on cocktail napkins? Or, the asshole writing freehand in a worn composition book?

In a place filled with fucking douchebags and assholes galore, I am a fucking asshole douchebag.

And why am I being so hard on myself? So what if I left my notebook at home? There are worse things. Though I can’t help but be annoyed with myself. The sole purpose of heading out was to fucking write. Which is akin to forgetting a bathing suit when you planned on going swimming.

It doesn’t help that my mind isn’t itself these days. What exactly was that “self” anyway? Not even I remember. My friends seem to. They keep reminding me that the “old me” has disappeared. Might as well put my fucking face on a milk cartoon.

So specifically, why am I at this Detroit drive, wasting my limited funds on unlimited whiskey? First of all, I justify it with cheap whiskey. It wasn’t long ago when I would abhor that shit. Now, it’s all I can afford.

My, how the mighty has fucking fallen.

As to why I’m here? Where else would I be?

Home?

Define home.

Crashing on the couch of a stranger – the only communication being a clear directive that there is to be no communication beyond paying rent – of which I could barely afford.

And why should a complete stranger give a flying fuck about me anyway? It wasn’t like I gave two shits about them. It’s cheap rent. A roof over my head. And a couch pillow for which to lay my head upon.

I used to have a house, until my wife threw me out – or, at least the discarded shell of my former self. You cheat one fucking time and suddenly, you’re on the street. Don’t get me wrong. Not looking for a pity party. I fucking deserved what I got. I cheated. She caught me. And now I’m living with the consequences.

Apparently, when you fuck the universe smack dab into its clitoral core, the universe fucks you RIGHT back up the ass.

So why did I cheat? There is no “why”. There was never a why. There will never be a why. There’s just…is. Once one understands that, one understands LIFE.

To be honest, not even sure I would have wanted to work things out if she tried, so in some ways. It was almost like I wanted to get caught. At least, some small part of me. I was otherwise content keeping it all as secret for as long as possible. After all, it was just sex. Wasn’t like I had fallen in love or anything. Looking back, perhaps I should have just gone the strip club route. Or a rub and tug. Sure, it would have cost money. But look at the price I’m paying now!

Of course – and again, not to justify – the cheating didn’t happen until after years of slowly getting my fucking heart out ripped out.

I know I should probably see all of this as a blessing. I’m free now. Maybe some day, I will realize this. When my feet are finally firmly planted on the ground. When the fuck that will be is anybody’s guess. Least of all, mine.

Sorry for the fuck-bombs, by the way. I honestly never swore this much until she left. Getting it all out of my system, I guess. But how much bile can possibly be left in me? In all honesty, it’s a habit I am hoping to break, once I find my center again. That oughta bring my fuck quotient down to a far more acceptable degree. But right now, swearing is cathartic as fuck.

And hopefully, by coming here tonight, I would get one step closer to finding my old self – my new old self. If not through my writing, then by some lasting memory.

For no particular reason, I just can’t help but feel as though something big is going to happen tonight. Not quite sure why – or what – but I do know I never quite felt this way before. At least not in this current incarnation of my life. Just what that something was, I have no fucking clue. Perhaps it would be finding the courage to talk to a woman at the bar? Mabye a new and profound story?

Or, the most likely probability…nothing at all.

So again, why this fucking shithole you might ask?

First off, fuck those pretentious craft cocktail bars that are taking over every other dive bar in town. Secondly, it’s close to home. And the music’s good (most of the time, at least…though it’s live music night and based on the first band, my hopes aren’t getting too high. In fact, it sounds like a fucking high school garage band that stopped practicing months ago).

Apparently, there’s a special benefit or fundraiser or some shit for some cafe that burned down.

Who would throw my benefit?

The bar tonight is too crowded for my liking. Not typical for a Wednesday night. And frequenting bars is certainly nothing new to me. Even before she left, I used to head out for writing sessions once or twice a week. However, the frequency was growing exponentially, despite the fact that the quantity (and by extension, quality) of my writing has gone in the opposite direction, despite the fact that bars were where I typically did my best writing – amidst the chaos of a public space, rather than in the quiet solitude of a desk. Then again, lately, it doesn’t matter where I write – or, more specifically attempt to write. Really, all I’m doing right now is hoping that somehow, magical prose will find a way to flow out of my pen like diarrhea, aided by ample amounts of cheap whiskey.

I am fully committed at this point.

Anything to break free from this writer’s block that has been plaguing me ever since my muse-in-sheep’s clothing walked out the door. Had it been totally up to her, I would have stopped writing altogether. And in the months leading up to the end, that’s exactly what I did. And where I most lost my sense of self. Like a drug addict discovering that the drug one is addicted to is the only thing keeping you semi-functional.

So here I am, without my goddam notebook and using wafer-thin paper that tear apart upon contact with my ballpoint pen. Of course, I could have gone back for it, but then again, that would have required energy I didn’t have – or, no longer knew how to summon. Wouldn’t be the first time I resorted to napkins when suddenly overcome with an urge to spill out my guts with pen on paper. Or, my own flesh.

Besides, there’s something liberating about quickly filling one napkin after another, as though they were entire notebook pages, rather than a 6×6 inch square or whatever the fuck length they were, filled with loose fragments and tidbits that may or may eventually reveal themselves to be the DNA of an eventual story. More than likely, these impressionistic loose strands would never amount to a hill of beans, but it was still as exhilarating and cleansing as fuck. Take, for instance, this batch of bunched up bullshit, the “literary” equivalent of watching a chicken running around with its head cut off. At least I am putting something to paper. Progress. The next step would be to figure out how to break from the variation of the same theme that I had been writing about for a good couple of years now: dissolving, sexless marriages, and lonely, downtrodden protagonists desperately looking for a new lease on life.

The line between my fiction and memoir was becoming especially blurred and more circular than ever. No wonder why I have no clarity or focus.

Spinning in my tracks. In life. And in writing.

Before I know it, I reach the bottom of my original stack of a dozen or so napkins, presumably left behind by a previous customer (and – from what I could gather – slightly used). I head up to the bar to ask for more, but get the stink eye.

I mean, how dare I?!

After all, this is the same bartender that ignored my existence for over 10 minutes before he took my order. My favorite bartender had the night off. She would never ignore me. (Or, in my mind at least, she wouldn’t). She had been my unsuspecting muse for quite some time now. A muse is a muse, whether she knows it or not. And man, I wish I had the balls to ask her out. I mean, I am technically single now, even if not legally so. But could I have had ever worked up the courage to ask her out? Not likely. Chances are, even if I did come up with the courage, I would swing and miss like so many another avenues of life lately.

I still couldn’t help but feel like something big was going to happen tonight. I felt it the second I entered this bag.

But what?

Fuck should I know.

Again, probably much ado about nothing. After all, why the fuck should be any different than any other night? Getting my hopes up is the story of my life.

So, I will remain passive, armed with a new stack of napkins and a bottle of Stroh’s (I reached my whiskey limit and made the call to the bullpen) and continue to pour out these wayward ramblings in search of coherence and acclaim. Like Hemingway and Burroughs before me, equally boozed up, but with only miniscule fraction of their talent.

As the minutes dwindle onward, the feverish pace I was writing at minutes before has become a drizzle of words were doodles, mostly consisting of Batman and baseballs. The only two thins I can draw. It was becoming more and more clear that the only thing I would accomplish tonight was finding the bottom of glasses.

I take a minute to scroll through Facebook. – the ultimate writer’s cockblock. Make it 10 minutes. Nothing of substance per usual, yet I addictively scroll and scroll and scroll – burning up the remaining fumes of my creativity. What I really need is a social media hiatus, but then again that would only further isolate myself from humanity. Lately, it seems all I did was piss people of on there with my snarky comments and passive-aggressive sub-posts. I never used to be like this. I was always sunshine and roses. Now, I’m a goddam storm cloud, raining on everyone’s fucking parade.

Halfway through my beer, I decide it’s time to wander a bit. So I pocket my shitty scribbles and the puts the blanks in another. Part of me thought about simply throwing them away, but why chance discarding a potential diamond in the rough? Then again, once I got home, these napkins were destined to join their fellow orphan napkins, scrap paper, and envelopes tattooed with notes that didn’t amount to shit and that would never see the light of day again (at least, not until next time I opened the box to add new pieces of shit some future drunk night much like this one).

Rinse.

Repeat.

I enter the adjacent room, which features the stage, where a DJ spins New between bands. Her frantic movements behind the controls suggested she was doing way more work than necessary as New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” plays.

A few scattered people stood along the perimeter of the dance floor. A lone dancer stood at the center of the floor, likely riding on a magic carpet ride of E. Maybe I should give it a shot sometime. Then again, I’ve barely smoked weed. Less than two years to be exact. And I could count on two hands the number of times I tried it. I thought it would make me more creative. But it didn’t. In fact, just the opposite. So clearly not ready to graduate to another drug. I’ll just stick with bourbon.

I head outside for some fresh air. The entrance is crowded with smokers, so I drift further down the street, into a light snowfall. A homeless man heads my way – the last thing I want to be dealing with right now. Torn green army jacket. Beard. Long-ish hair. Maybe he isn’t homeless. Maybe he’s just a patron.

“Excuse me,” the man says as he approaches me.

Here we go.

“Got a couple bucks?”

Guess my first guess was right after all.

As broke as I am, I probably had more than him. At least, I hoped so. I gave him a couple of bucks. If I get booze, why not this poor sap?

“God bless you, sir. God bless.”

“You, too.”

“Do you gotta a light?

“Sorry, man. Can’t help you there. But I know some people who might be able to help.”

I nod toward the smokers at the bar entrance. He heads toward them. I follow. Too fucking cold for this shit.

I grab another beer. I return to my seat, hoping that my little jaunt will have somehow shook a story loose like a stubborn dingleberry.

Nope.

Nada.

Nothing.

The homeless guy has entered the bar. He hovers tat the door momentarily, then starts toward me. When he finally recognizes me, he stops, realizing he already solicited me and heads off in search of greener pastures.

Nobody seems willing to listen.

“Why the fuck won’t anyone talk to me?!” he shouts to no one in particular.

The bartender takes notices. Approaches. And likely to be a dick about it.

He is.

“What the fuck did I do?” the homeless man demands to know.

“You need to leave.”

“I just want to listen to music and make friends.”

“Go. Before I call the police.”

This seems to do the trick. He leaves without further incident.

This all could have been avoided if I invited him to join me. But I didn’t.

A hipster chick resembling a fucking John Waters character begins setting up merch on the table next to me.

She’s dressed all in pink, wearing a pink flamingo lapel pin.

“I like your flamingo,” I say.

A desperate attempt at flirtation?

Hardly.

But courage, nonetheless.

I scan the merchandise. A band called The Pink Flamingoez. That explains it.

We converse.

Turns out she’s the girlfriend of the band’s lead singer. She explains that the band is a “a Pink Floyd cover band with the combine aesthetic of John Waters.”

Guess I wasn’t far off after all.

She struggles to set up a clothing rack, from which hangs Pink Flamingoez t-shirts.

I stare at the unused napkins in front of me. Take a sip of beer.

And the world continues to spin.

It’s all it can do.

With or without us.

And with that thought, I realize I am getting sleepy. And should probably head home.

I accept the fact that nothing of significance was going to tonight after all.

And then:

WHACK!!

The clothing rack collapses, knocking me directly on my head.

Metal on skull.