I left Georgia in my rear-view with a smile on my face. The honeymoon was over.
I had a bottle of caffeine pills and a pocket full of ephedrine. I didn’t care where I stayed, or how much gas I burned. I just wanted to leave.
My first weekend in town I slithering through the local bar scene. I reconnoitered everything by foot, making mental notes and getting loaded. Initially there was promise . . .
When I landed in the Pacific Northwest, my only point-of-contact was my buddy Ford. I asked him about the dive-bar scene and he told me about a local galley. I was on a first-name basis with the wait-staff after three days. It’s hard for me to argue with good food and cheap drinks.
Next I hit the Kitchen – the local hot spot for live music. Metal, punk, and rock-a-billy. I stumbled across a duo named Hopeless Jack. The best band I’d never heard of.
Unfortunately, a man cannot live on PBR alone. It was then the cracks began to show. There is gambling on every corner, in every bar, but the liquor authority is terrible. The bars start throwing people out by 1:30. Booze is expensive, and liquor stores are few and far between. My days of cheap Evan Williams and walking to the strip club were over.
Speaking of strip clubs, there are only two in town. Full-nude juice-bar type joints. There are only seven in the whole fucking state, and none of them serve alcohol.
If I wanted to stare up a stripper’s asshole, I’d throw her an extra hundred and ask to see the VIP room. As it is, I know better than that. I don’t go to strip clubs with the false belief that they’ll go home with me. I just want to get hammered and stare at their tits. It’s nice when they cop a feel, but I’m not taking them home to mother.
And I’m certainly not paying to fuck them, and I don’t want them knowing where I live. I know they’re not taking me home. Our “lovemaking” would wake up their kid. That leaves fucking in the car, and there’s not a lot of room in the front seat of a Scion.
If I want to feel cheap and low at three in the morning I’ll just piss on my boots behind a gas station.