29 September 2007

Friday Night

I was going over the racing papers, glugging some cheap red wine, as Sonja was being spooked by Ghost Whisperer on the tv. Every now and then I would look up from my paper and wonder if Jennifer Love Hewitt would like to give me head. Nothing wrong with going through life believing in longshots.

It was a cozy, natural gas warmed, Friday night in the motherfucking suburbs. Then my dog attacked me. She wanted to go stretch her legs again in the park. I finished my glass of wine and took her out.

In the park I could hear quiet voices in the dark dug outs where the local teenagers like to drink Malibu and high test beer so the Hammer and I kept to the other end of the park. I thought perhaps one of the voices was my neighbour John from around the corner but he was not circling the park with his dog like usual so I figured I must be mistaken.

After a while, from the far end of the park, I saw two figures and a dog making their way out of the park. Shortly thereafter my dog and I made our way back to my wine from the same park exit. Near the road, in the darkness on the grass, I came upon one of the two men I thought had both left minutes before. He was half laying, half kneeling on the grass.

I asked, "You ok buddy?"

He gurgled. It was not a good gurgle. It was a bad gurgle. The Hammer hoped he was going to vomit.

"You from around here buddy?"

More gurgling. He could not move, he was fully inebriated. I had not been that pissed since the last time I went camping.

At last he put two words together, "I'm fucked."

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Fucked. You live around here?"

"I'm fucked from fuckfuckfuck," he gurgled.

Now I was in a spot. What do you do with a fucked up guy in a park? Luckily John returned right about then without his dog.

"I couldn't carry the fucker and hang on to the dog at the same time so I had to take her home first. My wife's coming with the car if you can help load him into it with me," he slurred.

As the car slowly rolled away John's wife Daisy rolled down her window and rolled her eyes as she drove into the shitfaced Steepleton night.


Gazetteer said...

Racing papers?

The still have Racing papers?

On paper?


Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

If it was not for bongs there would be damn little paper left to roll anything but dope.

Gazetteer said...

I dunno.

Always felt somehow that racing papers go best with slugs of whiskey straight out of the bottle on cold, windswept autumn Saturday afternoons.

But that probably has more to do with my baptism by horses during fall meets at shabby little Sandown on the Island rather than anything influenced by Bukowski.


Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

I hope Sandown hangs on.

Many of the dreams that made our province what it is today were dreamt with the help of straight racetrack whisky.