Archive for short story

My Sorry State of Mind

Posted in story with tags , , , , , on November 20, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

A story for a Saturday Night ….

 

My Sorry State of Mind

     Escaping into the night from room 114, embarking on another adventure alone in another lost coastal town, I entered some strange and grungy little leisure pit on the Highway.

     “What a mess …” This was my first thought as I entered this god-forsaken squalor of a diversion. The Sailor Jack. That was the designation of this woeful excuse for a tavern. The roadhouse had been well named, for all of its patrons appeared a bit crusty around the edges, save the business type lurking at a corner table close to the door. Why not, can’t dance. I staggered boldly forth into the unknown, receiving strange hesitant glances from the onlookers.

     “Ciao!” I shouted to a group of bystanders over the uproar. They seem taken aback by attempt at human contact. So I shuffled on over to the at home with comfort of a nearby bar stool.

      “Barkeep. I’ll take a shot of your finest tequila and a glass of Bud.”

     “Are you certain Sir?” He asked in his shady backwater accent.

     “Yes, I’m sure dammit!” In fact I wasn’t all that sure, having consumed my personal weight in alcohol watching a large slice of a “Law and Order” marathon in my motel room prior to arriving.

     I turned to soak up my surroundings as best as I could. Somewhere in here lay the solution to my problems tonight. Something or someone in here would be my muse. A lady, a tête-à-tête, a portrait of a far off, nonexistent seascape. Or perhaps a view from a clandestine, untouched, moonlit veranda submitting some place with a fractured glimmer of romanticized illusion, left slightly still contained and cherished within it.

     Yet, it seemed I would find nothing of the sort in here. This ignoble hell-hole seemed to be sucking the very life out of me with every breath I took.

     “Where’s my goddamned tequila?” I slammed my palm on the bar.

     And then he door opened and she entered. The sultry temptress of my dreams. Could she be it? The muse I have so desperately been searching for? Could it indeed be that at this very moment as she seemed to approach? Law and Order be damned!

     Her walk was intoxicating, with an extraordinary, almost hypnotically enchanting effect. Her eyes look as if to contain their own peculiar prowess, and yet simultaneously a suggestion of naïveté as though she was lost in this angst-ridden world, just as I was.

     She drew near … Closer … Closer … Very much in front of me. Directly in front of me. My eyes widened in expectation as to what words those delicate lips would form.

     “Hiya doll, know where a girl like me could have a little fun?”

     It was as though the shear sonic force of her voice was going to shake me off my seat. It was like nothing that I’ve heard before. Her voice fractured all enchantment surrounding her. Her tone was jarring and nasal, and gave the same impression of as that of a drug addled socialite sent to live with the huddled masses as a part of a cruel social experiment.

     “Pardon me Ma’am?” I uttered aghast at this spectacular paradox of beauty.

     “Care to dance sailor?”

     Again her voice pierced my auditory canal, and rattled my skull. I looked her up and down and measured the conflicting qualities of this living; breathing proof that god had graced me with his sense of humor. While her physical beauty in my besotted eyes was unquestionable, nonetheless I determined she was no muse. Still I concluded that she would in fact make a suitable companion for the night. On one small condition …

     “I would very much love to dance, but only if you promise to say as little as humanly possible.”

     There was a moment of silence between us. This crass but inviting strumpet seemed to be sizing me up, determining what purpose swam beneath my alcohol enriched veins. And then …

     She responded nonchalantly, “Sounds good to me.”

     And then we danced, my inebriated state filling me with a furthered passion, my limbs flailing wildly and enmeshing themselves with hers. We were like two frogs caught in the intimate hold of a net. We ordered another round and laughed, chortled, and yes talked and danced some more.

     It seemed that I had in fact been graced with a temporary cure for my sorry state of mind.