The Gorko Gazette

Brave Dreams & Dive-Bar Stew

Bar edge brutality in the depths of last-night’s werewolf transformation to a new, ugly morning. I slow sip it, but not all the time, ya know, although tonight felt smoother than all those other one’s that I can barely remember. Reggie and Julio had slippin’ fingers, and were losin’ stool cushion, and I knew tomorrow would be rougher than it would be or should.

‘How ’bouts we call it, tonight, dudes, I’m tryin’ to make the line-up, in the AM, whaddaya say?’ Trey said, and he surfed goofy style; not like position, but rather, he spent more time paddlin’ and swimmin’ than the cruise-side of a wave face – the water would be all gloss and glisten.

Julio yucked a few hiccups; shades on, and his moral compass ran true, so I sent him out, and pinned an arrival time note to the collar of his flamboyant shirt – he always makes it home to an angry and frantic girlfriend, but he swears she’s sweet – I bet, because of all the yappin’ he’s missin.’

I swung back into the deserted barroom like a Wednesday after a 3-day, & 3-stage, dj & beats, festival. It was completely devoid of a purpose to drink, but Reggie’s always thirstier than the amount of booze on hand.

Bar-Top obscene: Reggie was mutterin’ more drool than eloquence, and Trey started to pop knuckles trained to smash men with brave dreams.

After 4-hours, and a few extra minutes of snooze, I’d be carvin’ waves like Thanksgivin’ Americans do. However, at the brevity of the instant, I could barely see if it was one chair at a table or two…I heimliched my gut, lost my air, but kept the poo…our stupidity keeps the world from coming unglued.

I popped, surf-style, to my feet, and they babbled loudly. Reggie’s heels staggered, Trey laid in tersely; I side-stepped everything that wasn’t there and collided with every stationary thing that couldn’t move.

Finally, I got to where they were, and heard the point of their jabbering, their boil, the place & time where truth meets gumption: dive-bar stew.

‘You don’t know nothin,’ let me tell ya, that ain’t good; the color is glum…just like yu’re dumb…give me a drink, c’mon, be cooler than that painting, behind ya,’ Reggie slathered, X’s over eyes, and Trey had the look of a man making a decision between satisfaction, and the inconvenience of fist-skin, splintered by teeth.

‘Hey, hey, bro-migos…what are we talkin’ about…let’s not get all twisted and constricted like a man-eating jungle snake,’ I said, ‘Trey, hey, look at me; ole Reg-dawg is a live, drunken-wire, rambler, and Reggie, anybody can judge the quality of good in anything…take class for instance, Ima drunk who got’s-it, and you the kind that ain’t.’

They had perplexed stares, and I stumbled on a heavy piece of neon glare. ‘Shut the fuck up, Nico,’ Trey spat – I put my hands up, properly tripped into a chair and did just that.

‘Reggie!’ Trey shouted – it perked my eyes straight, ‘I suggest you move to the door, because if I come around this bar, your head will have a dent.’

Ole Reg-dawg had spectacular balance for a boogie-boarding, dick-draggin’ son-of-a-gun, holdin’ his feet – I kept thinking: these seedy nights are gettin’ bleak.

I knew I needed to get up, get Reggie, but my legs were curled and bent, and, well, it was his face that would get a dent. So, I sat and watched the show. Trey made moves, and Reggie was braver than this moment required him too. ‘Stop!’ Reggie blurted like a loud fart that gets away from clenched cheeks.

We all froze. Then, Reggie said, ‘the freest painting is the literary word; because one sentence can elucidate a million images that are beautifully different.’

My brain barely worked, however, Reggie was poignant, for, what I thought, was, at least, worth one more beer and a shot – it seemed like cool would pervade.

Trey got loose because any drunk talkin’ like that, must have his conscience, semi-to-pretty-close-to-intact. I figured the same and got my top-slop to goopy feet, banged on my cheeks, and slid like shaky ice-skates to the door – I’d probably give my return, at least a week.

Trey, assumed Reggie would do the same, as did I, and I turned and said, ‘Reggie…where we goin’?’

He stared at Trey, and sputtered, ‘too bad…ya only think ’bout stupid things…stupider than your mother.’ I cringed in the light flap of the seedy saloon’s door.

Reggie wore an eye-patch for a week, he’s got vertigo, and his wife tells me his left nostril whistles when he snores, and he doesn’t like the beach-side dive scene anymore.

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