Will Everything Come Out Okay?

January 2, 2017 at 9:35 pm (Cosmic Encounters, Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly)

I’m not much for holiday songs, but this ditty came out during my teen years and I felt the urge to revisit. George wasn’t my favorite Beatle, but he was one of the top four. He also did an ode to constipation that I will put up at the end, if I can find it.

But that’s later. First we’ve got to get through New Year’s Eve.

"Party woohoo!"

“Party woohoo!”

The closing of 2016 brought relief to my head. That’s where my troubles have been coming from, my head. People die every day, and it happens more as you get older. The recent rash of celebrity deaths are reminding us that the reaper is never far away. This year, however, it seems like Mr Reaper went and got hisself a lawnmower.

New Years Eve was on Saturday night this year. Not only a double-whammy drinking night, but TWO nights of hammertime to follow. I haven’t imbibed in alcohol in almost six years, but that doesn’t stop me from taking advantage of the situation. I will encourage you to suck down as much joy-juice as we think you can handle. Or until you become intolerable.

New Years Eve itself wasn’t hectic, not until the end anyway. I had a trainee, Percy. It’s his first job anywhere. (He’s 26.) He’s not particularly worldly wise, but he’s not easily intimidated either. I watched him handle a couple rowdy customers, and decided he could hold his own. I wasn’t going to hold it for him.

I have years of history working the Nightclub Store. Otherwise troublesome clientele will keep on rolling, either out of respect or the pesky inconvenience of arrest. Maybe a bit of both? I nod and smile, herding paying customers one direction, the moochers another way. It wasn’t hard to pick them apart. The bar next door had almost closed, forever, but was bought at the last minute by a wealthy real estate baron. Since it’s (arguably) my favorite bar still open, I will not complain about the douchebro clientele of the night. Fifteen busloads worth.

One five. And though they were “short buses” in spirit, they were of the full-length variety. 500 drunks in one fell swoop? Bring it.

I’ve worked a lot of New Year’s Eve’s. Usually I team up with Dr T, but they have him on morning shifts these days. Last time I worked New Year’s Eve, it was with Southie and Festus. Southie bought pizza, otherwise a boring night. This year was a skosh wilder with me in charge.

Until 10 PM it was church-Sunday quiet. Sub-freezing temperatures kept wanderers to a minimum. Barfly Magazine had bought out the bar for the night. (I’d get the occasional dirty look for pronouncing it “BARF-ly”.) I would sell an occasional 22 oz microbrew of something classy to the well-mannered. “Just don’t get caught drinking outside, because fines are expensive!” It’s as close to Dad as I’m going to be tonight.

Sister showed up a little after eleven, and I was prepped and ready to go when Giggles walked into the store. We made it to the bus with nary a rush, and was home for a dinner of Voodoo doughnuts.

New Year’s Day was a mish-mash of errands. Visited Dizzy for a bit, spent a lot of time chatting with Rain, crock-potted a pork roast, and spent a lot of time lost inside my head. As I was heading out of downtown on MAX, I saw the light was on at the boss’s office. Art East was up in the crow’s nest. Nosy fella that I am, I figured I’d see if any crime was happening. Sho’nuff, another pesky alcohol thief. He’d walk in, grab as much as he could carry, and dare you to do something about it.

Now that we know what he looks like, maybe we can.

As I boarded the bus, I got another text. Art had a large box of sample beers and wines; would I like to have them to redistribute? I had no personal interest, but my little sister has been tippling of late, so I would hook her up. I took the box, and beat her to the bus stop by about half a block. We made the early bus, and her eyes bugged when she found out that heavy-assed box I wouldn’t let her help carry was full of booze! Merry Xmas, kiddo, just don’t drink it all tonight.

She didn’t, but she had a few.

I gifted a bottle of blackberry wine cooler to one of Sister’s coworkers, and stashed a bottle of rose` under the bed, so I don’t have to open my good bottle of wine if Rain decides to come over and get drunk some night. There were bottles of water and apple juice, and a bottle of birch beer. I claimed those for my holiday drinks.

I turned off the crock pot about 2 AM, after making a pulled-pork sandwich and sneaking half a pork shoulder to the dog. (Luna got my cheesy bread crusts as well. Sssh.) I left Sister with instructions to put the pork away after she’d ate.

Well, it was a good plan, but I didn’t pester her specifically about dinner to the point of irritation. I asked her once, but she was busy relaxing over beers with the dog, who was dragging branches into the house again. Sister and Luna got into a muddy wrestling match in the backyard.

The next morning, I found the pork shoulders where I’d left them. They were sitting by the kitchen window, which was cold enough for me to put them on a plate and pretend I didn’t know they’d been sitting out all night. I slipped a couple bites to the dog, before taking a bite myself. (I took a small bite. If the dog has shit all over the house by the time I get home, I will know better than to eat any more.)

Sister was okay from the meat, but her doggy wrestling match had brought side effects. She had a puffy right eye, with a thorn or bit of gravel or a grape nut stuck in or under her eyelid. After an hour of self-doctoring, we walked over to the fire department. I figured they might have an idea, and they did. They took us to a sink in the garage, where they had a faucet that shot two streams upward with gentle force, used to rinse out chemicals, grit, etc… She gave it a good five minutes. They mopped her off and took her name. The water seemed to make it feel worse.

When she got to work, her coworker, a mom about Sister’s age, immediately diagnosed Sister with pinkeye. Oh joy.

Well, I promised to close this out with George Harrison’s Constipation Song. I don’t know what it’s called, but it sounds like he’s singing, “Gotta shit, gotta shit” over and over. Since I cannot find, or maybe I imagined this song, I will have to call in a substitute. Screaming Jay Hawkins because, goddammit, I promised you a constipation song:

2017: “Everything is gonna be all right…!”


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