Sweet Relief for Little Drunk Virginia
Is there anything better for the flu than a Dos Equis and lime? Really, anything? I don't think so; except for maybe a Jamaican Mule, which if you all haven't had, you all need to try. A Jamaican Mule is a man's drink that doesn't taste like shit; in fact, or more accurately, in my opinion, it tastes like a man who's just gotten out of the shower and shaved. I'm always surprised by the number of bartenders who don't know what a Jamaican Mule is. I'll ask, and then they'll ask, how do you make that? So I asked my pal, Tim, who first started making them for me years ago and now I tell them, “This is what I want and how you make it.â€
Tim and I went to the Armadillo last night in Carrboro, which is a nice little place; both Carrboro and the pub. Carrboro is the kind of place where shopkeepers leave their little Christmas lights up all year. Unlike, my city, they can afford the electricity bill. I go there from time to time when I need to pretend that I made different choices with my life. I am not a public school teacher in a title one school. No, I finished my graduate work and went on to get my doctorate degree and am now adjunct faculty at a local college. I'm not meeting a guy who is re-training a thirty-four-year-old crack schizophrenic who stole his truck because his very independently wealthy dad, gave his farm the thirty-four year old's Durango. No, my friend doesn't work with the insanely rich insane; he finished his theology degree and is now a professor too.
I was very ill. I hadn't slept the night before because of a fever, had gone to work in spite of it, and then had driven an hour and a half afterwards to meet Tim. If he hadn't been the person who introduced me to the Jamaican Mule, I might have called him and canceled. And I almost did, but then I reminded myself that he was driving three hours to meet me and didn't have the next day off. I could Mucinex and chicken soup for the thirty year old soul tomorrow, tonight I was going to have to fake wellness.
Driving in on MLK drive, I thought this is the only place in the world where MLK drive has a recycling center that is well marked by a city sign.
We drank and caught up on things with each other. He told me about the schizophrenic who'd stolen his truck and driven it to Wilmington the same weekend he'd driven to the beach to meet his parents on the new Durango. He laughed, “The Durango is something else, blinged out. You should see the rims.â€
I said, “I had no idea you cared about rims?â€
“I don't.â€
“So you got his Durango and trip to a beach, and he got your truck and a trip to the beach. Sounds like a fair trade.â€
“Actually, he got my truck and trip to jail. Rodger had to report it stolen; his dad bailed him out and sent him back to us.â€
I'm amazed though at how calm he is describing these people and things that he deals with all the time. And then I ask him because he brings up ska, “So what is ska, exactly?â€
“It's the precursor to reggae, reggae with horns.â€
“Oh, I say. I totally get that.â€
Then he goes on to explain how Gwen Stefani's brother was heavily into ska, figured it would not work out, and left music to pursue his education.
“Hmmm,†I said, “Thus the pop band known as No Doubt.â€
“Right.â€
Then he explains something about Joe Strummer and totally loses me.
We finish our drinks and walk through the parking lot. He tells me that while he was waiting for me some man had walked by his car and said to the air, “If you do not buy my land I'm going to kill you.†and then turned to him and said, “Can I ask you a favor?â€
“You can't seem to get away from schizophrenics can you?†I asked.
He smiled, “It's the voices. They tell me they are my brothers.†And then without pausing. “Are you hungry?â€
“No, I ate lunch.â€
“Lunch! Yep, that's sufficient.â€
“Of course it is, that and the beer with lime.â€
I breathe in the cool night air, and I am grateful to be here. It's February. And I'm wearing my corduroy jacket and strolling up a street while I smoke, and I am very comfortable. I feel good. I wouldn't say cured, but I feel good.
“You know I felt sick before I drove down here.â€
“Really? You alright?â€
“Sure. I think it was the vitamin C.â€
some albums, a drink, and a story
revised
i added in some descriptive details because i thought it needed something, and really i just wanted to see things in my head. i've thought about it, and there is no way to contrive a central conflict, and i think that's just that with most of the things, i just don't feel like faking it, there's enough conflict in the world, and i'm not going to write it into a story for the sake of plot. i think i fixed the tense shifts, and fixed some of the punctuation errors. i never catch all of them though. revised:
Sweet Relief for Little Drunk Virginia
Is there anything better for the flu than a Dos Equis and lime? Really, anything? I don't think so; except for maybe a Jamaican Mule, which if you all haven't had, you all need to try. A Jamaican Mule is a man's drink that doesn't taste like shit; it tastes like a man who's just gotten out of the shower and shaved. I'm always surprised by the number of bartenders who don't know what a Jamaican Mule is. I'll ask, and they'll say, how do you make that? So I asked my pal, Tim, who first started making them for me years ago and now I tell them, “This is what I want and how you make it.â€
Tim and I went to the Armadillo last night in Carrboro, which is a nice little place; both Carrboro and the pub. Carrboro is the kind of place where shopkeepers leave their little Christmas lights up all year. Unlike, my city, they can afford the electricity bill. I go there from time to time when I need to pretend that I made different choices with my life. I am not a public school teacher in a title one school. No, I finished my graduate work and went on to get my doctorate degree and am now adjunct faculty at a local college. I'm not meeting a guy who is re-training a thirty-four-year-old crack schizophrenic who stole his truck because his very independently wealthy dad, gave Tim's farm the thirty-four year old's Durango. No, my friend doesn't work with the insanely rich insane; he finished his theology degree and is now a professor too.
I was very ill. I hadn't slept the night before because of a fever, had gone to work in spite of it, and then had driven an hour and a half afterwards to meet him. If he hadn't been the person who introduced me to the Jamaican Mule, I might have called him and canceled. And I almost did, but then I reminded myself that he was driving three hours to meet me and didn't have the next day off. I could Mucinex and chicken soup for the thirty- year-old soul tomorrow, tonight I was going to have to fake wellness.
Driving in on MLK drive, I thought, this is the only place in the world, where MLK drive has a recycling center that is well marked by a city sign.
I called Tim on my cell phone when I got to Estes Drive. He said, “Make sure you stay to your left. I didn't and that's where my problems started.â€
I stayed to the left and drove right past the parking lot where I was supposed to meet him, which was oddly enough, on my right. I turned around in a drugstore parking lot and went back.
After circling the parking lot, I found Tim's car and parked near him.
He got out looking a bit sloppy and happy. His long hair hadn't changed in the two months since I'd last seen him. He was wearing a sweater and baggy jeans that looked like every other sweater and baggy jeans he wore in the winter. His beard was well trimmed.
I suggested that we get a drink at the restaurant I had passed on the corner up from the center. He thought that it was a good idea.
The restaurant had a bar upstairs, and I started sweating as we walked up the steps. We rounded the corner and looked for a place to sit. It was dark. There were about three or four people at the bar. Two women sat talking at a high table in the corner, and two men sat watching a game on the television that was mounted in the corner. There was a long row of seats facing the windows, and Tim sat down in one of them. I sat beside him and began taking off my jacket. I was still hot. “This is why you layer,†I said to him as I took off my sweater and sat in my tee-shirt.
“What are you drinking?â€
“Get me a Dos Equis,†I said.
He came back to our spot, and we drank and caught up on things with each other. He told me about the schizophrenic who'd stolen his truck and driven it to Wilmington the same weekend he'd driven to the beach to meet his parents on the new Durango. He laughed, “The Durango is something else, blinged out. You should see the rims.â€
I said, “I had no idea you cared about rims.â€
“I don't.â€
“So you got his Durango and a trip to a beach, and he got your truck and a trip to the beach. Sounds like a fair trade.â€
“Actually, he got my truck and trip to jail. Rodger had to report it stolen; anyway, his dad bailed him out and sent him back to us.â€
I'm amazed, though, at how calm he is describing these people and things that he deals with all the time. And then I ask him because he brings up ska, “So what is ska, exactly?â€
“It's the precursor to reggae, reggae with horns.â€
“Oh, I say. I totally get that.â€
Then he goes on to explain how Gwen Stefani's brother was heavily into ska, figured it would not work out, and left music to pursue his education.
“Hmmm,†I said, “Thus the pop band known as No Doubt.â€
“Right.â€
Then he explained something about Joe Strummer and totally lost me.
We finished our drinks and walked through the parking lot. He told me that while he was waiting for me some man had walked by his car and said, “If you do not buy my land I'm going to kill you.†to the air and then turned to him and said, “Can I ask you a favor?â€
“You can't seem to get away from schizophrenics can you?†I asked.
He smiled, “It's the voices. They tell me they are my brothers.†And then without pausing. “Are you hungry?â€
“No, I ate lunch.â€
“Lunch! Yep, that's sufficient.â€
“Of course it is, that and the beer with lime.â€
I breathed in the cool night air, and I was grateful to be there. It was February. And I was wearing my corduroy jacket and strolling up a street while I smoked, and I was very comfortable. I felt good. I wouldn't say cured, but I good.
“You know I felt sick before I drove down here.â€
“Really? You alright?â€
“Sure. I think it was the vitamin C.â€
Sweet Relief for Little Drunk Virginia
Is there anything better for the flu than a Dos Equis and lime? Really, anything? I don't think so; except for maybe a Jamaican Mule, which if you all haven't had, you all need to try. A Jamaican Mule is a man's drink that doesn't taste like shit; it tastes like a man who's just gotten out of the shower and shaved. I'm always surprised by the number of bartenders who don't know what a Jamaican Mule is. I'll ask, and they'll say, how do you make that? So I asked my pal, Tim, who first started making them for me years ago and now I tell them, “This is what I want and how you make it.â€
Tim and I went to the Armadillo last night in Carrboro, which is a nice little place; both Carrboro and the pub. Carrboro is the kind of place where shopkeepers leave their little Christmas lights up all year. Unlike, my city, they can afford the electricity bill. I go there from time to time when I need to pretend that I made different choices with my life. I am not a public school teacher in a title one school. No, I finished my graduate work and went on to get my doctorate degree and am now adjunct faculty at a local college. I'm not meeting a guy who is re-training a thirty-four-year-old crack schizophrenic who stole his truck because his very independently wealthy dad, gave Tim's farm the thirty-four year old's Durango. No, my friend doesn't work with the insanely rich insane; he finished his theology degree and is now a professor too.
I was very ill. I hadn't slept the night before because of a fever, had gone to work in spite of it, and then had driven an hour and a half afterwards to meet him. If he hadn't been the person who introduced me to the Jamaican Mule, I might have called him and canceled. And I almost did, but then I reminded myself that he was driving three hours to meet me and didn't have the next day off. I could Mucinex and chicken soup for the thirty- year-old soul tomorrow, tonight I was going to have to fake wellness.
Driving in on MLK drive, I thought, this is the only place in the world, where MLK drive has a recycling center that is well marked by a city sign.
I called Tim on my cell phone when I got to Estes Drive. He said, “Make sure you stay to your left. I didn't and that's where my problems started.â€
I stayed to the left and drove right past the parking lot where I was supposed to meet him, which was oddly enough, on my right. I turned around in a drugstore parking lot and went back.
After circling the parking lot, I found Tim's car and parked near him.
He got out looking a bit sloppy and happy. His long hair hadn't changed in the two months since I'd last seen him. He was wearing a sweater and baggy jeans that looked like every other sweater and baggy jeans he wore in the winter. His beard was well trimmed.
I suggested that we get a drink at the restaurant I had passed on the corner up from the center. He thought that it was a good idea.
The restaurant had a bar upstairs, and I started sweating as we walked up the steps. We rounded the corner and looked for a place to sit. It was dark. There were about three or four people at the bar. Two women sat talking at a high table in the corner, and two men sat watching a game on the television that was mounted in the corner. There was a long row of seats facing the windows, and Tim sat down in one of them. I sat beside him and began taking off my jacket. I was still hot. “This is why you layer,†I said to him as I took off my sweater and sat in my tee-shirt.
“What are you drinking?â€
“Get me a Dos Equis,†I said.
He came back to our spot, and we drank and caught up on things with each other. He told me about the schizophrenic who'd stolen his truck and driven it to Wilmington the same weekend he'd driven to the beach to meet his parents on the new Durango. He laughed, “The Durango is something else, blinged out. You should see the rims.â€
I said, “I had no idea you cared about rims.â€
“I don't.â€
“So you got his Durango and a trip to a beach, and he got your truck and a trip to the beach. Sounds like a fair trade.â€
“Actually, he got my truck and trip to jail. Rodger had to report it stolen; anyway, his dad bailed him out and sent him back to us.â€
I'm amazed, though, at how calm he is describing these people and things that he deals with all the time. And then I ask him because he brings up ska, “So what is ska, exactly?â€
“It's the precursor to reggae, reggae with horns.â€
“Oh, I say. I totally get that.â€
Then he goes on to explain how Gwen Stefani's brother was heavily into ska, figured it would not work out, and left music to pursue his education.
“Hmmm,†I said, “Thus the pop band known as No Doubt.â€
“Right.â€
Then he explained something about Joe Strummer and totally lost me.
We finished our drinks and walked through the parking lot. He told me that while he was waiting for me some man had walked by his car and said, “If you do not buy my land I'm going to kill you.†to the air and then turned to him and said, “Can I ask you a favor?â€
“You can't seem to get away from schizophrenics can you?†I asked.
He smiled, “It's the voices. They tell me they are my brothers.†And then without pausing. “Are you hungry?â€
“No, I ate lunch.â€
“Lunch! Yep, that's sufficient.â€
“Of course it is, that and the beer with lime.â€
I breathed in the cool night air, and I was grateful to be there. It was February. And I was wearing my corduroy jacket and strolling up a street while I smoked, and I was very comfortable. I felt good. I wouldn't say cured, but I good.
“You know I felt sick before I drove down here.â€
“Really? You alright?â€
“Sure. I think it was the vitamin C.â€