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The Life

"What you need," said Zody with an earnestness that comes only with significant intoxication, "is a piece of ass." He and Carl were seated at the bar and were approaching oblivion. Zody had just gotten paid on a house painting job and he was buying. "Now take that girl there," he continued, gesturing with thick fingers across the room to a slim brunette with an angular chin, generous mouth and large bright eyes, "that's a woman you just get down on the bed. Straight to the main course. No appetizers. You know what I'm sayin'?" Carl knew what he was saying but it had been eleven months since he'd been with a woman, any woman, and not even his inebriated state could arouse in him sufficient confidence to approach someone at a bar. Besides, she had overheard Zody's drunken commentary and had turned to face the juke. Undiscouraged, Zody went on. "You know, how you be all hard and she get sloppy like applesauce."

Carl got up and walked to the bathroom.

Zody stayed at the bar. "You gonna jack that thing off?" he shouted. Nobody seemed to notice.

Carl got to the john and closed the door behind him. Someone was taking a shit in the stall and it really stank. For a moment he thought about puking. He bent over the sink, ran the cold water and splashed his face.

Carl was the only person he knew who had chosen to become a drunk. For six years he had drifted from shit job to shit job. At packing plants, delicatessens, hardware stores. "I'd rather be a drunk than a dentist," he'd often said. Now he was unemployed. And Zody, so named for having briefly been a suspect in the Zodiac Killer case, was buying.

When Carl returned to the bar, the brunette was in his seat. Zody had an unusual talent for bullshit and now he was working his lines on her. Carl stood and watched. It was as if she'd forgotten completely about Zody's earlier remarks. Maybe she'd seen him buying drinks and figured she could catch a few herself. Carl wasn't sure. What he did know was that when one was broke, one had to eat shit. That meant waiting patiently until Zody decided to buy another round.

Carl stood and waited. Then Zody began to tell a joke. Carl had heard it before. Something about a run-over turtle and a roast beef sandwich. Zody softene his tone to make the girl lean in close. When he got to the punchline he grabbed her thigh and they both laughed. "This guy's wasting his time painting garages," thought Carl.

When the two had stopped laughing, Zody stood up and threw a ten dollar tip on the bar. "What say we move on?" he said. Carl knew this comment was not directed at him. The brunette stood up and took Zody's arm. Before leaving, he threw Carl a look that said, "You're on your own."

Carl looked down at the bar. The bartender was pouring drinks at the far end. He hadn't seen Zody throw down the ten. Carl sat in front of his empty glass and slid the folded bill toward him. There was a baseball game on television. To his right he noticed a woman, in her mid-thirties with mouse-brown hair and visibly drunk. Her glass was empty and she was fishing through her purse for coins. When the bartender returned, Carl handed him the ten and ordered two bourbons.

The woman turned to Carl and smiled. "I work in a golf ball factory," she said.

It was a Thursday in America and the night looked good.

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