“Since we can’t hang on your birthday next week, I brought over a present.” Garret presented Joseph with a bottle of Maker’s 46.
“Thanks dude.”
“You’re welcome.”
Joseph handed Garret a PBR and grabbed one for himself.
“Play some heads up?”
“Okay.”
Each man shuffled a deck of cards and counted out an equal number of chips. In their regular ring game with friends they played dealer’s choice, but one-on-one they only played No Limit Hold ‘Em, tournament style for a fixed amount.
After an hour they’d each won a game and had a couple of beers.
“Why don’t we open the bottle you brought over? Just to try it.”
“No arguments here man, I just thought you might like to save it for some other time.”
“Nah, let’s open it.”
Joseph opened the bottled and poured a glass for each of them, neat.
Another hour passed.
“This stuff is so smooth. Just plain Maker’s is so smooth, but this stuff is . . . I don’t wanna say ‘better,’ but they’ve outdone themselves with it,” Garret said.
“Yeah man.”
An hour later, “Joe, you’re just not a good poker player. Let’s play again, I own you.”
“How can you say that after you just bluffed away all your chips?”
Garret snickered. “I read you right, you shoulda never called with bottom pair.”
“But you had nothing. It was the right call, I beat you.”
“Yeah but I could’ve had something. You’ll see next time. Shuffle up.”
“Hang on, I’ll pour us another.” Joseph walked to the kitchen with their glasses. “Garret, you know there’s only about a third of this bottle left.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“We can finish it.”
“That would be dumb.”
The game devolved into a display not much unlike two card guts, rarely seeing a flop before they were both all in. When Joseph poured the last of the bottle, Garret tossed his deck aside, knocking over his remaining chips.
“I owe you $8. I’ll pay you later.”
“I don’t care about the money, Garret. The joy lies in victory.”
“Good, then I won’t pay you later.”
Joseph raised his glass, “To the remnants of this beloved bottle, Mr. 46, you were delicious.”
“May the juice cleanse our souls.”
The doorbell rang. As Joseph rose to see who was there, he realized for the first time that he was very drunk, his perception falling into a familiar blur. It was Annabeth. He’d forgotten she said she might stay over.
“You guys got wasted, what’s wrong with you?” Annabeth laughed as she asked, but her tone disapproved.
Joseph, concentrating hard to avoid slurring his speech, offered, “Sometimes people drink a whole bottle of 46.”
“I’ll just be on my way now,” Garret said as he stood to walk home.
Annabeth fell asleep disappointed, Joseph barely making it to the bed. The next day he felt horrible, nausea and a splitting headache barely affected by ibuprofen, wondering why. Annabeth thought perhaps her boyfriend was an alcoholic.
Showing posts with label PBR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PBR. Show all posts
Drew's Diet
“Do you drink?”
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
Cornhole at the Keep
“What’s going on out there?” Some dude, standing in the doorway by the pool table, asked in the general direction of Garret and Joseph.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
First Date
Joseph took a tater tot, dipped it in hot sauce, and dropped it into his mouth. He laughed like a schoolboy, still chewing, before lashing out with a loud “La la la la, la, la la la” as Bob Dylan’s "The Man In Me" began.
Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look. “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”
Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice. They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked. The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.
Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz. This is going well, don’t screw it up.
“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song. I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”
Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it. At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?” Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”
“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.
“. . .”
“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR. “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”
Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane. His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .” He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.
The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged. Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.
As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.
(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)
Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look. “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”
Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice. They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked. The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.
Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz. This is going well, don’t screw it up.
“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song. I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”
Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it. At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?” Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”
“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.
“. . .”
“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR. “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”
Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane. His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .” He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.
The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged. Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.
As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.
(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)
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