Longshanks Bill Falls Up To His Waist In Love.
Dog me long, but I never seen such a sight like that, before or since nor ever after. She moved like twisting in the wind, like smoke in the dark, like blood in the needle and back down to earth. Good God damn, I was all up in love. And I me only came into Jack’s Lapped to be rubbed up the right way and for a cold, cold brewer. How the mighty.
Lapped was its name, a place of fog and fug and not likely remembrance for the new dawn. A place for gentlemen and their thoughts and big-titty kitties with all on show. I did like it. I did spend my money and I did stride.
And one day, a Tuesday, Thursday or a middle of the week day, one in the lone and level stretch between the glory times of Old Man Saturn and the Fat Old Sun, I wandered lonely into there, found there all I me could find and for the enjoyment and fancied myself some beer and I did say:
“Anything cold, oh my darlin’, and cheap – I have 12 some bills and mean to make them last ‘til the day breaks over me like two by four.” I did drink deep of the first of the day, cold, cold it was, and there came a voice as did they, loudspeakered over the hubbub for to announce:
“Gentlemen! Ladies! Jack’s Lapped is pleased to present you all of you with a newest delight.”
I turned myself to face this, bring old friend beer along. Something new was what Old Bill was all for, I tell you now. Too much of the rumination was the ruin of me. I swigged my cold and watched the curtain sway as someone behindabouts did move to it.
“We give to you – Miss Gloria Euphoria!”
She came out of the curtains like born to the world right there, slipped full formed from velvet vulva, and I swear, moth-er-FUCK!, she was an angel. If and she’d had wings I’da dropped to the floor and prayed, I say. And prayed right hard. She walked like nothing ever seen, cream white skin and skinny, limbs like bark-stripped willow branch, hair so black I swear did see the stars in’t. And she moved around and about that pole like the twisting red about a barber’s sign, round and round the garden, hypnotise, for surely.
So that was old Bill lost to the moment, for how long of it I don’t know nor care about. But some time musta passed me by, because my beer run dry and I had to fill her up.
Turnabout myself again and to the bar, to find myself a runt there buying beer like a man, he thought. He’s up in my personal space right there and I ‘scuse myself but he’ll have none.
“Watch, old time, you’ll catch trouble,” he say. He sips his cold brewer like it’s first time for both of ‘em, and his beer foam moustache done overpower his real one and I tell him so.
“Fuck you,” he tell, “you grave stalker alcaloid, as you are. You look to get slapped up tonight, eh?”
“Well, we’ll cross that when come to,” I say. I stand, tall streak I am, and he stays a-sitting. He nods his drink at me, resumes. I give him seconds spare to reconsider and he does not, wise it is.
“In that case, I’ll go piss at the wall,” I say and go.
By time I am return, Miss Gloria Euphoria, fallen angel land on her feet, is at the bar. I think enough of me to sidle in alongsides and ask if I may purchase her refreshment. She smile back and the sun is out, new dawn, new day, pissed upon by the runt with nearly a moustache, who haws at her, leans in and say, “You don’t want that broken sack of old shits, baby, come sit on this for me, I tell.”
“Mind manners, son,” I say him there, “apologise.”
He straightens him and puffs his chest. “Fuck your mamma, old time. Fuck her true.”
I move my bones between him and my Euphoria, return, “Not that kind o’ motherfucker, Old Bill, not at all. Did no your mother teach you that?” He dumb look, not to know if he’s on the insult or not, they kids today no wit or language, see.
“Take its bitch then, fucker you. Catch it, I say you will.” He slam cracks his glass to bar and moves off.
I push at his puffed chest with a finger. “You, cocksmoke son of some bitch, are about asking to be on the arse end of an arse-kicking and I’m like to oblige you, don’t you know.”
He smile up, like he thinks of me it’s all the bluff and bluster an old duffer can muster, but I’m like to take him to old school by a scenic route, then he launch up like Apollo fucking 9, wham. Comes at me a blur, just white of his shirt up through the gloom and the smokes and the night lights.
He weighs like a sack of spuds without some spuds, gainsay that he could attain his age, so little of him. I’m near the age meself when roughhouse brawls are dreams of youth, but this last hurrah will do me true. I wade through like old time Moses through the sea. He gets in some, truth to tell, but I’m pissed mad, no doubt. I got my wading boots on tonight.
Next I know of I’m lifted away by a bouncer man and she there, Miss Gloria, do vouch for me and I’m not thrown to the kerb this night, for a wonder. She takes my arm and leadeth me to the bar, where I’d planned to stay, in truth, and thanks me for my time. And then Longshanks has a tab for the night as recompense, and she’s off again, whirling and twirling for all to see. My own God, if I had my youth, drop forty years or more, and I’d make a mark there, I declare.
Like I do say, I never seen such a sight like that, before or since nor ever after. Miss Gloria Euphoria, right as raindance. I drank me dry that night and watched for every smile and glance as came my way. I tipped my glass to the angel there and made out that each one was not a sadness on me for my lost time. Old time motherfucker, sad but true.
Most of times I’d be thrown from Lapped, into trash or rain or gutters vile, and always to find that some unmannered cove had pissed his load down the front of my pants again, happens every time. One day I’ll catch him and allow as to how I mind that, so I do.
But that night, broken Bill, once proud wall-climber on the sky hook, pensioned away and brought down to earth the hard way, did not land in shit and not his own, nor wonder at the stains about himself.
I had my fill, no less, no more, and walked on out the door, said the bouncer man thank you surely, and left by own means true.
World belongs to them, fear, callow youth and wasted on ‘em too. “Fuck your mamma,” he did say, and called me old time. Christ they make ‘em cocky today, they do. I slapped him upside down his head, sure enough.
I did not walk, nor amble, or saunter still. I allowed Old Bill to stride.
And, my dancing angel, her own name did not occur, be it fine or plain or better still. And I did not return there to Jack’s ever more, not to sully memory mine, not hers for sure. Leave it be, for old time’s. Leave be.
Miss Gloria Euphoria would do for me, I tell.
