Mexican Beer and the NSIBM

We were sitting at the bar in a Mexican joint. One of your less popular Roger Miller songs was playing on the jukebox. We'd been in there before, but never just to go to the bar. That afternoon, though, we'd been wandering around Lower Manhattan, and it seemed the nearest place. We'd had a few earlier in the day but now, well, now it was later.

The bartender brought me a beer and Morgan a margarita. This was the only place I'd ever seen her drink a margarita. Of course, this was also the only place where I drank Mexican beer. She deftly plucked the lime wedge from the mouth of my bottle and dropped it into her drink. I never could stand fruit in my beer.

"I'm footloose and scurvy-free," she said, as we raised our glasses.

Then I reached for my notebook and jotted that down. I've always got an ear open for future book titles, and that one would be added to the list, right next to Rancid, The Devil Horse and Where's Your God Now, Old Woman?

A report had come out recently that stated that one-quarter of all the alcohol in the United States is consumed by teenagers. That only leaves three-quarters for the rest of us. Goddamn greedy kids. It meant we had some work to do.

We drank for a while and listened to Roger Miller, then later to Tennessee Ernie Ford, and a version of "I've Been Everywhere" I'd never hear before. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette, and then reached into my bag for a pack of matches. After lighting the smoke and tossing the spent match into the ashtray, I dropped the matchbook into a bowl in front of me. The bowl contained several other books of matches. The one I had just dropped was of the specially printed, promotional variety. They'd been printed up in 1999, and the cover, for some reason, featured my name in tiny letters. I was always a little embarrassed by that. They were good matches, though.

Back in my office, I had some 5000 books of these matches stored away in large boxes. I was never quite sure what to do with them. I suppose leaving one here would be a first step toward cleaning my office up some.

A few minutes later, even before our first drinks were gone, a busboy zipped by. As he passed, he reached out a hand and snatched up the matches I'd just dropped in the bowl.

"That busboy just took your matches," Morgan told me.

"Oh, that's okay," I said. Then I quietly reached down into my bag again, found an identical book of matches and dropped them into the bowl. At the same time, I reminded myself to refill my bag the next morning at the office.

The bar was almost completely deserted. Still, it took a while to get the bartender's attention. He was working on a puzzle of some kind. We got the impression that he didn't much want to be there. He was pleasant to us, though, and we ordered another round. Once again, much to my relief, Morgan snatched my lime wedge. Outside, it was the time of the Chinese New Year, but you never would've known it from where we sat.

Oh, the days do drift on by, and the conversation drifted from this to that.

"The Germans are at it again," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Got something today that called me?or maybe the book. Or maybe the weather for all I know. Well, whatever the hell it was, they called it a 'non-standard intellectual branching mouse.'"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know," I told her. "I honestly don't know. But I sure don't like the sounds of it."

During the next round, someone was playing a few Merle Haggard songs. It must've been the bartender himself, as the rest of the place stayed empty. It seemed odd for a 5 o'clock on a Friday night, but it was okay by us.

The previous weekend, Morgan and I planned to meet up and do something, but we weren't exactly sure what. She suggested a Russian festival she'd just heard about.

"Yeah...uh..." I said. The idea of fighting through a mass of people for a cup of cold borscht or warm vodka just didn't sound too appealing right then.

"There's a guy there who's dressed his poodles in tutus, and has them walking on their hind legs," she offered. She knew what would pique my interest. And for a moment, I reconsidered. In the end, though, we didn't go, and sitting there at that bar, I regretted missing it. I have a bad track record of backing out of potentially interesting things, only to regret it later, for one reason or another. I just get nervous.

"I'm sorry we missed those dogs in the tutus," I said.

"That's okay," she said.

"Next time he comes around, though."

"Sure, that would be fun."

"Because you know," I told her, "whenever there's a poodle wearin' a tutu and running on his hind legs, I'll be there. Whenever there's a chimp on roller skates wearin' a fez and smokin' a cigar...I'll be there. And whenever there's a bear dressed like a bellhop ridin' a bike?"

"?or a squirrel waterskiing behind a remote-controlled power boat," she added.

"?well, by God, I'll be there, too."