Being Jesus and Other Tales of Failure
Black Out
Corvin Thomas
I remember taking my shirt off. I was in front of the bar. I remember waving it over my head. I remember what the man said.
"You're a bum. And you'll always be a bum!"
And he used my name. He knew me.
I remember the daylight. I remember waking up on the sidewalk in front of my house. I remember watching the landlord painting the porch.
"I know what you're up to," I said.
The landlord stopped painting.
I remember all that. But the rest is dark, another Saturday blackout before sundown.
Nancy, my girlfriend at the time, snored into morning. But paranoia slept right beside her. And I woke up to another sweaty menage on the Sabbath, beads of guilt soaking the sheets, the pillow screaming fool, pounding my crown of thorns deeper, deeper.
I'd been drinking at that bar for years. The first drink was the drink of an unemployed man, another bellied up boozer. But they liked my act, the way I kissed the floor, letting my dirty mouth run after hours.
"Ireland is Europe's Alabama," I goaded Dara the Irish bartender.
But she laughed. Everyone laughed. I was a funny guy in my cups. But no one could understand how I got the television job.
"I seen your face in a plate of hot cheese," A.R. said. "And now you're on the news?"
I tried to explain. But they still didn't get it.
"But you're a drunk," Eric said shaking his head. "I remember . . ."
He told a story. They all had stories. Some of them were even true.
My celebrity grew like a softball star. I represented the bar, the losers and boozers and bar backs, my friends and sponsors. They'd turn down the music and turn up the television.
"He looks thirsty!" somebody yelled.
"Is he wearing pants?" somebody else yelled.
I sat at the bar and took the glad slaps with a smile. It was embarrassing. But I liked it, too. I liked the head nods and back of hand whispers on the weekends, the faint recognition.
"He's drunk!"
And I was, dressed with the inverted pride of a bum.
I was also, occasionally, barred. Sometimes they'd just had enough, too many pratfalls, too much yelling at the walls.
"You're scaring some of the customers."
Don said it slowly. He owned the bar.
That was the night I woke up in the back of somebody's truck.
But there were never any hard feelings. I didn't fight. I was just too loud. And Saturdays were the worst. I was always hung over and starting early. I loved drinking by daylight, watching the shadows disappear. A regular with regular status, I was, just another asshole.
But the thin line grew thinner. There were things I couldn't recall, mysterious bruises on both biceps. A pile of wet clothes in the hall confused me. I'd piece it together with stories retold, how the bartenders pinned my arms to the wall, how I pissed myself. It was always told with a laugh, a head scratch. And I'd shrug like it was someone else.
"How do you get away with this shit at work," A.R. asked wiping a glass. "Don't they know?"
But I did get away with it. And they didn't know. I had the booze rep with the boss. I'd been suspended before. But I learned from it, tried to tone it down, limiting my act to one bar and a set of bartenders who were used to it, let me slide without dropping a dime. It worked for years. That's why I lived around the corner.
That's also why I wasn't worried when I showed up for my usual Saturday afternoon shift.
I asked Eric about the sign, the advertisement. He said it was new tequila.
"It's called Tarantula," he said.
"I can see that," I said.
Eric poured. I swallowed. And I was heading for the floor with numbers seven, eight and nine.
And there was something said that I didn't like. And there was more poured. And there was mustard. And there was the beauty salon and the bright street and people passing on the sidewalk and the injustice of singing a song I couldn't remember. They were looking at me from the other side of the window, from inside the bar, watching the show, my unqualified agony. I bared my chest to the tarantula sky, waving my shirt over head, daring it, calling to it. But Nancy came instead.
"Take him home," someone said.
"But I'm just getting started," I said.
And the sidewalk came up, grabbed me, smacked me and went away. The two feet below me were mine. But they were mush, mud and chasing drops of blood.
"You're bleeding."
Female voice.
"Let me help."
Another female voice, couldn't tell whose, three sets of feet under me
"Television man," an older voice, a man's voice. "What a joke."
"Hey," I said, nothing else. I couldn't. My feelings were hurt but I knew the voice had it right. I stopped and dropped.
"Leave him there," someone said. "He'll get up when he's ready."
And I did.
Sometimes people laugh after the fact, friends who understand the romance of a drunk. Some don't. Mike was behind the bar the next day. And he wasn't laughing.
"I don't know if you want to be here right now," he said in a whisper.
"Why not," I whispered back.
"Eddie's here."
"Who the fuck is Eddie?"
"The guy you dumped the mustard on yesterday?"
"What?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "A whole bottle. Don wanted to black ball your ass when he heard about that."
"Oh, shit."
"I'd buy Eddie a beer if I was you."
"I'll pay his fucking tab," I said. "Where is he?"
Mike pointed to the booth by the kitchen. A skinny little man sat nursing a long neck, enjoying the quiet condiments of the corner. Eddie was half bald, timid. He flinched when I walked up.
"I'm very sorry," I said. "But I don't remember."
"That's alright," Eddie said.
He spoke with an English accent that melted my heart.
"I've been there myself."
"I've got your tab."
"Cheers," Eddie said and I almost cried.
"What the fuck happened yesterday," Mike asked. "I heard you went off."
I pointed to the sign.
"Don't sell any more of that new stuff."
The front table was full. A couple of guys waved. They cut hair at the salon across the street. They worked for Melanie, the ex-stripper. I knew Melanie.
"Very funny," Rex said from the table.
"What's that?"
Rex said I walked into the salon, sat down, slapped a credit card on the sink and offered to pay Melanie a thousand bucks to cut my hair in the nude.
The table laughed. My stomach hurt, gut nausea.
"Oh."
Eddie walked by on his way out, my new mustard colored friend.
"Cheers," he said again.
I waved, sick, watching the door for more stories from the dark side of the dick.
"Ever consider A.A.," Mike asked.
I vowed to lighten up, hold it down. But a few months later it happened again, raving and rambling, sitting on someone's motorcycle out front, screaming, "Look at me everyone! I'm a big motorcycle man!"
At least that's what someone told me.
They wouldn't let me in after that.
And then I stopped drinking.
I remember that most of all.