whiskey

Buffalo Alberts was drinking his cheap whiskey and not bothering anybody.  He was drinking cheap whiskey because he'd already had plenty of cheap beer, so the taste was basically not a consideration and the price had taken on the role of Most Important Factor.  He didn't even know what brand it was, just that it didn't seem like too many dollar bills were filtering out of his wallet, so he was satisfied and almost happy.  The bar was a little swankier than what he was used to, too, but a visit to some old friends had left him far from his usual haunts and when his head needed some washing down, there was no time to lose.  So, there he was at the bar, letting the bubbly chatter from other patrons swirl around him.  Everybody seemed to be relaxed and in a good mood, at least from the sound of their voices.  But suddenly, there was a disturbance in the force.

"You can't say that!" the voice rang out, "I demand you apologize!"  The man's voice wobbled with emotion.  Did somebody say something about his mother?  Buffalo turned lazily on the swivel bar stool to get a load of the action.  A tall man in rather preppy clothes was on his feet next to a table near the wall.  Two women were still seated, across from one another, with startled, deer-in-the-headlights faces.  There was a chair just behind the standing man, so Buffalo surmised that he had been sitting with them until that moment.  "Well?" he shrieked, his voice getting higher and more unpleasant.  One of the women reached out and motioned for him to sit down while the other said something, but since she was using her inside voice, what she said couldn't be heard at the bar.  Buffalo frowned.  Not much entertainment.  The man slowly sat down, shaking his head but also using his inside voice now, and that seemed to be that.  Buffalo turned back to his whiskey and studied the future at the bottom of the glass.

Time passes differently inside a bar than outside, so it seemed like it was both a long time and almost immediately that the next shout went up.

"I don't get it!  You have to explain!"  A fist crashing onto the table emphasized the need for further information.  The whole bar focused its attention on the table near the wall, where one of the women was looking mildly irritated now and the other was blushing with embarrassment.  The preppy man was also red faced, but with anger probably, and after his table thump he pointed an accusing finger at the irritated woman's face practically wailed, "You aren't explaining!  Jokes aren't funny unless you explain!"  Now she responded at the same volume.

"Jesus Christ, George, jokes aren't funny if you explain them!  Just forget it, for fuck's sake!"

The man leaped to his feet again, knocking over the chair behind him.  "I know what you do in your living room!  You give yourself orgasms with your raincoat!"

What the tittyshits was that?  Was Buffalo hallucinating this argument?  He stared down at the nearly empty glass and then let his eye wander clumsily around the room.  Well, everybody else was staring at them too.  At least something was really going on.  Both the women were now staring incredulously at the man, while he waved his right arm in their direction and shouted again, "Isn't it true?  And you keep lions to breed with your cats!  Perverts!  Frankensteins!"

Disbelief had visibly spread to the entire bar.  Buffalo glanced around, thinking a hidden camera had to be filming somewhere, but none was obvious to his drunken eye.  The women's gazes had moved to each other and away from the man, and his loud reaction pulled Buffalo's gaze back to the table as well.  "You can't ignore me!" he screamed, "I'll educate you!"  At this the women stood up brusquely and, grabbing their purses, stalked off towards the restrooms.  The man was frozen for a moment, but then he whirled and lurched after them, emitting almost word-like yodels.  Mouths were open in astonishment at every table and Buffalo wanted to applaud the performance.  He restrained himself, however, reasoning through his alcohol buffered haze that the appearance of belief in the seriousness of the situation was desired by the filmmakers.  Who was he to spoil somebody's project?

The man did not tempt fate by entering the ladies' room, instead returning calmly to the table and sitting down as if nothing had happened.  A waiter nervously approached and mumbled something with knitted brow, but the man laughed and waved him away.  Minutes passed, this time for sure.  Buffalo looked expectantly towards the restrooms, but the women didn't reappear.  Sighing, he raised his glass to his mouth and was startled to see the clear bottom untinted by brown liquor.  He reached for his wallet, grumbling, and spat in disgust when he saw it was empty.

"Yes, I think you've had enough, sir," snapped the bartender with stern disapproval.

"Yep, well, I guess I'm glad ya charged for every drink when I got it," drawled Buffalo, secretly sincerely thankful that he had.  He was in no shape to wash dishes to pay off a tab and if there was one thing he didn't need these days, it was an encounter with the police.  "My cue to leave," he sighed and hopped off the stool.

He tried to amble out as nonchalantly as possible, but had to stop and observe a man in a suit come up to the table near the wall.  Maybe the owner.  He said something and the tall man looked shocked.  Then the anger returned, almost creating a visible aura of rage around the preppy polo shirt and he howled, "That's not fair!  I can't leave before they touch my penis!  All the prostitutes in here have to touch my penis!"  He swept the room of newly startled patrons with his arm, and the exasperated owner nodded towards the bartender, who pulled out a cell phone.  Yep, definitely time for Buffalo to move on.

He glided out into the hot parking lot, still steaming in the dimness of the summer night.  He was startled by two silhouettes coming around the corner of the bar, presumably from where the restroom windows were, and as they passed him he caught the muttered words "motherfucking restraining order".  The women looked awfully casual to be prostitutes.  Maybe they were specialist escorts, girl-next-door types.  In any case, Buffalo Alberts was reminded of a phrase he'd heard could be used to caption every New Yorker cartoon ever and he couldn't help but say it, solemnly, aloud:

"Christ, what an asshole."

Then he moved off semi-steadily, cackling to himself at others' misfortunes.