Trapped in the Anus
12/31/2004 12:56:51 PM
Winter has flayed the heat from my balls. I am peeled grapes on a sidewalk going nowhere. A beggars cup. A ditch. An itch.
Caldwell and I arrived at this little dive bar called the Aardvarks Anus on 109th and Amsterdam. We order two Makers neat and two PBRs. We shot back the bourbon and Caldwell raised two fingers in the air immediately and grumbled:
Hey barkeep, two more and make em doubles, huh? Your singles are leaky. Within seconds two more glasses of coffin varnish arrived. Caldwell slapped me on the back and I winced. Nothin like a little hair a dog, ay? He chuckled.
Hey Caldwell.
Yeah.
Did you call me this morning.
Nope.
Are you sure?
Of course Im fuckin sure. My phones out thanks to that bitch in Fiji.
I must be loosing my mind.
Maybe its the booze.
Yeah.
By now the bourbon had begun to work its voodoo magic and the Bayou began to waltz through my head in a parade of drunken Crocodiles and Creole lilts that I knew would end in a Kentucky woods with a noose and one cigarette. Caldwell could see the effects too. He was closing in. I had to change the subject.
I thought She was from Fuji.
No Fiji.
Whats the difference?
Fuck the difference.
Whadda ya mean.
Have another drink.
It was clear that I had to tack into the wind but in order to do so I needed some semblance of sobriety. Our glass were empty and it was my buy. I raised to fingers in the air. The bartender was leaning against the far end of the bar eyeing us with mild disgust.
Two scotch and waters. I said.
What! Caldwell, yelled.
What?
You cant go changin mid-swill you pansy. He said, Scotch is a pussy drink. Barkeep hold the water and make mine a Bourbon. Makers if you will.
Scotch is a gentleman's drink. Barkeep, Ill take the water too, thank you.
Gentlemen are pansy-assed.
Bourbons for barbarians. I said.
Its for warriors of the American persuasion with a long distinguished history of victory. Caldwell put chewed unlit stump of a cigar in his mouth and began to glare.
It seemed my divergence worked. It was only a matter of time before I could slip off to the bathroom and climb out the back window. I took a big gulp.
Be right back. I said, and headed of the bathroom.
The smell of piss was pungent and nearly knocked my out. Once inside, I locked the door and opened the window and began to climb out feet first. I hung down and dropped about four feet and then brushed the grit from my hands and clothes. Then something hard jammed into my back.
I knew it. Only a scotch drinkin fairy would climb out of piss-hole window to skip his tab.
I turned around and Caldwell jammed the nozzle into my belly and I doubled over, gasping.
You prick. I said.
Soft in the belly?
Since when do you pack heat.
Since four days ago. He pointed the gun at me. Only this was no BB gun. This one was real. Real bad. Now stand up Makowski and get your polak ass back in the bar. We got business to attend, and part of that business includes drinkin.
Youre off your rocker, Caldwell.
Yeah? Well youll be offed if you dont start walkin.
And this is how it began. Forced to drink at gun point. I never really believed that Caldwell would actually shoot me, at least not fatally. But it was clear that he was shaken up by these new circumstances and it was clear that he was hell bent on soliciting, if not out right coercing me into helping him. The bargaining began as such: You owe me a lot of money, Makowski.
For what? Your two bit legal advise?
Its more than two bits, punk.
I paid in kind, ten fold.
Those were gifts.
The hell they were!
Listen here, Makowski! He said, pointing his cigar at me. Here he paused and chewed his tongue. He then leaned in. Shut the babble box and open the drums, boy... You do this for me and were square for life.
Square.
More than square. Youll have my legal services for as long as I live for free.
Let me see it in writing.
What it was he wanted me to do, I was still unsure of.
Listen, I said. I need to clear my head. Im all fogged up inside. Give me two days. Ill meet you at the Village Idiot on Tuesday, eleven am.
Better make it the Patriot.
Why.
The Idiot, closed four months ago.
Fine. I threw a sawbuck on the bar and walked out and just kept walking. I walked all the way down to 42nd and then back up to Seminary Row. When I got back I fell on my bed and fell asleep.
12/31/2004 12:56:51 PM
Winter has flayed the heat from my balls. I am peeled grapes on a sidewalk going nowhere. A beggars cup. A ditch. An itch.
Caldwell and I arrived at this little dive bar called the Aardvarks Anus on 109th and Amsterdam. We order two Makers neat and two PBRs. We shot back the bourbon and Caldwell raised two fingers in the air immediately and grumbled:
Hey barkeep, two more and make em doubles, huh? Your singles are leaky. Within seconds two more glasses of coffin varnish arrived. Caldwell slapped me on the back and I winced. Nothin like a little hair a dog, ay? He chuckled.
Hey Caldwell.
Yeah.
Did you call me this morning.
Nope.
Are you sure?
Of course Im fuckin sure. My phones out thanks to that bitch in Fiji.
I must be loosing my mind.
Maybe its the booze.
Yeah.
By now the bourbon had begun to work its voodoo magic and the Bayou began to waltz through my head in a parade of drunken Crocodiles and Creole lilts that I knew would end in a Kentucky woods with a noose and one cigarette. Caldwell could see the effects too. He was closing in. I had to change the subject.
I thought She was from Fuji.
No Fiji.
Whats the difference?
Fuck the difference.
Whadda ya mean.
Have another drink.
It was clear that I had to tack into the wind but in order to do so I needed some semblance of sobriety. Our glass were empty and it was my buy. I raised to fingers in the air. The bartender was leaning against the far end of the bar eyeing us with mild disgust.
Two scotch and waters. I said.
What! Caldwell, yelled.
What?
You cant go changin mid-swill you pansy. He said, Scotch is a pussy drink. Barkeep hold the water and make mine a Bourbon. Makers if you will.
Scotch is a gentleman's drink. Barkeep, Ill take the water too, thank you.
Gentlemen are pansy-assed.
Bourbons for barbarians. I said.
Its for warriors of the American persuasion with a long distinguished history of victory. Caldwell put chewed unlit stump of a cigar in his mouth and began to glare.
It seemed my divergence worked. It was only a matter of time before I could slip off to the bathroom and climb out the back window. I took a big gulp.
Be right back. I said, and headed of the bathroom.
The smell of piss was pungent and nearly knocked my out. Once inside, I locked the door and opened the window and began to climb out feet first. I hung down and dropped about four feet and then brushed the grit from my hands and clothes. Then something hard jammed into my back.
I knew it. Only a scotch drinkin fairy would climb out of piss-hole window to skip his tab.
I turned around and Caldwell jammed the nozzle into my belly and I doubled over, gasping.
You prick. I said.
Soft in the belly?
Since when do you pack heat.
Since four days ago. He pointed the gun at me. Only this was no BB gun. This one was real. Real bad. Now stand up Makowski and get your polak ass back in the bar. We got business to attend, and part of that business includes drinkin.
Youre off your rocker, Caldwell.
Yeah? Well youll be offed if you dont start walkin.
And this is how it began. Forced to drink at gun point. I never really believed that Caldwell would actually shoot me, at least not fatally. But it was clear that he was shaken up by these new circumstances and it was clear that he was hell bent on soliciting, if not out right coercing me into helping him. The bargaining began as such: You owe me a lot of money, Makowski.
For what? Your two bit legal advise?
Its more than two bits, punk.
I paid in kind, ten fold.
Those were gifts.
The hell they were!
Listen here, Makowski! He said, pointing his cigar at me. Here he paused and chewed his tongue. He then leaned in. Shut the babble box and open the drums, boy... You do this for me and were square for life.
Square.
More than square. Youll have my legal services for as long as I live for free.
Let me see it in writing.
What it was he wanted me to do, I was still unsure of.
Listen, I said. I need to clear my head. Im all fogged up inside. Give me two days. Ill meet you at the Village Idiot on Tuesday, eleven am.
Better make it the Patriot.
Why.
The Idiot, closed four months ago.
Fine. I threw a sawbuck on the bar and walked out and just kept walking. I walked all the way down to 42nd and then back up to Seminary Row. When I got back I fell on my bed and fell asleep.