---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Being Real” cc&d (v264) (the July/August 2016 issue, v26) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book After the Blues the cc&d July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 318 page July-Dec. 2016 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Flawed Logic of Alcohol Molecules

Bernard Otto

    Ike and Turk weren’t the kind of guys I’d invite over to watch the game, but we got along well enough to sit in my car, a clean inconspicuous four door sedan. My name’s Vern, Ike and I chose to sit here instead of the local tavern “Drink a Few.” It was packed for early afternoon on a hot overcast day. The A/C awaited the repairman and the ventilation didn’t do a thing for the smell of empty beer bottles.
    We had a good view of everything going and coming down the block long Plymouth Street nestled between Congress Parkway and Van Buren Street. There were a few parking meters on one side of the block and delivery trucks servicing businesses and condo complexes on the other. The south end of the Central Business District has it all, moral and immoral, organized chaos with Van Buren lined with adult bookstores, old established delicatessens, Chinese food restaurants and a few transient hotels. We were comfortable in our little spot and the beat cop didn’t hassle us as long as we didn’t disrespect his/her authority.
     “OK, Ike, say it.” I held out my cup and watched him pour the vodka.
    “Why didn’t you pull that bitch, did you see the ass on her?”
    Ike’s a good guy; his short wide frame made him an ideal fullback. When he tried out for the pros a trick knee screwed up that dream and he ended up at UPS. But, the more he drank the fouler his mouth. “No ‘B’ words, Ike, remember?”
    “Right, sorry, but still.”
    “She didn’t interest me. I don’t care how she flashed those bedroom eyes.”
    Ike shook his head. “Damn, sometimes I wish I was tall with straight black hair like you.”
    “Why? You’re the bodybuilder female’s love, right?” Ike grinned and poured juice in his cup. “You got a point, bro.” I didn’t need to know to hear the BS. “Did you like her friend?”
    “Her friend?”
    “Yeah, she came in a few minutes later.”
    “No, I missed her.”
    “I’d go back in and show you, but it’s too hot and stuffy. I bet they’ll be back tomorrow or soon and then we make a move. OK?” That should put that to rest.
    “Cool.” We drank in silence and watched our fellow rat racers hurry to the Amtrak and Metra stations.
    Ike pulled out a joint. “You’re drunk and that’s the last thing you need; weed will really fuck you up.”
    “I’m on the train today.”
    “Well, smoke it outside, I don’t need a contact.”
    “Fuck it then.” He put it back in his pocket.
    “I got to be careful; vodka will sneak up on you.” I said. It wasn’t my drink, but Ike was buying. “I’m thinking about slowing down and going back to school.”
    “School? I got a degree and you see where I am, driving a UPS truck.”
    “Right, but that piece of paper got you on the short list for promotion. I’m tired of being a postal window clerk.” I said and killed my drink.
    “Want to trade places?”
    “No, I can’t do the heavy lifting.”
    “I don’t lift, Vern, I’m a tractor-trailer driver. I never mentioned that, but guys our age need to find their niche. We’ll look around and be forty, fifty, and sixty and time to retire.”
    “Yeah, you right and since we’re discussing the future, where’s Turk? I thought I saw him inside.”
    “You did.” Ike looked in his mirror. “Speaking of the devil here he comes.” When I turned around Turk grabbed the door handle and hopped in. He was one of the more interesting drunks I’d met. He said he was the assistant stock manager at the Sears on State Street, a stone’s throw from the tavern. He was a small guy with a baritone voice. I’ve seen him in uniform once, but the name tag said someone else. Go figure, and we did. Turk’s lying about the job or his name. He smoked a ton of weed and occasionally the pipe, so he said.
    Now you see why I wouldn’t invite him over.
    And, he drank the best of them under the table. But, he brightens the conversation with his humor and perspective. He pushed my jacket aside and tossed a bag on the floor. “Where’s the taste y’all, I see the cups?” Ike showed him the empty bottle. “Damn, you could’ve saved some for the brother.”
    “How are we supposed to know you wanted in?” I asked.
    “I always...always want in.” Ike reached in the bag between his legs and revealed another bottle. “OK, cool pour me some.”
    “I see you changed clothes. Pull up those baggy, sagging pants before you get arrested.” We laughed and for the next hour we gossiped.
    “Well brothers I’m done I got something to do.” Ike opened the door and got out.
    “Don’t go to sleep and get clipped.” I said and he headed down the street. “I’m tired and drunk too, I hope traffic has lightened up.”
    Turk got in the front. His phone chirped; he gotten a text message. “Vern, I need a favor.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Run me on the West Side to my female’s crib. I’ll give you gas money and buy another taste.”
    A red flag popped in my impaired mind. Why did he change into hood clothes? He was at least thirty-five and dressing like that brought heat. Now he looked like the typical brother on a wanted poster; medium height, weight, brown eyes and short black hair. “Let me think a minute.” I looked at the time.
    “C’mon man, if you need to crash, you good, but I need to get there soon.”
    It’ll be Ok, Vern, take a nap at his girl’s house if you need to. “Ok, Turk.” I crossed my fingers.

*

    The closer we got to the intersection of Madison and Wilson the slower the traffic. A gaper’s block. Two emergency vehicles zipped past and turned at the corner. Their sirens faded. Police were directing traffic at the light, a black SUV had t-boned a smaller vehicle. Why did I come on the west side? “Turk, put the cup down man. I don’t want the cops radioing ahead.”
    “They do that?”
    “Duh.” What was he thinking? He wasn’t driving so what does he care? “Where’s the BBQ joint? I can smell it.”
    “Uncle Reggie’s is a few blocks ahead, but first I need to make a stop, if you don’t mind.”
    Here we go with the BS. Think positive, Vern, think positive. An order of tips with mild sauce would hit the spot, but that would put me to sleep. I promised the wife I wouldn’t be late two nights in a row. “Turk...Turk.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Don’t start no shit man. Ok?”
    His tone changed. “Don’t insult me; I’m too old for dumb shit. Turn right at the next corner and find a spot.” That was what I did and Turk hopped out. I watched him hobble down the block pulling up his pants with every step. He stopped at a court way building and spoke into the intercom. The block was lined with wood frame house and several vacant lots. I couldn’t help but notice the speed bumps. The hood doesn’t change even on the Westside. I heard faint gun shots to the north.
    What am I doing over here? If Turk was one minute longer I’m gone.
    He must’ve have heard me. He shot out of the six foot wrought iron gate and ran down the opposite side of the street. He slowed and pointed behind me. I looked in the rear view mirror and he cut the corner headed down Madison. I reached to turn the ignition when two big guys ran out the building’s gate with pistols out, stopped and scanned the street. Jesus! I’m glad I hadn’t started to pull out. I leaned over and hoped they didn’t see me. What did Turk do? A few minutes passed and I pulled away when they pocketed their weapons and headed north. Good bye, Turk you’ll get your bag whenever. The street lights came on; I circled the block and drove down Madison to the BBQ shack.
    It wasn’t too crowded and I parked between two small trucks. Surprise. I was out in ten minutes with a small rib tip with mild sauce.
    Who was that in the front seat? Damn, it was Turk. Where did that asshole come from?
    I hit the panic button. He damn near jumped out his skin when I snatched open the door. “What are you doing, Turk. Where did you go?” I couldn’t get in fast enough. “Get out of my car, now.” I ripped open my order and dug in when he left. The food sucked. The spicy mild sauce didn’t cover the taste of over cooked pork. A tap on the window interrupted my drunken feast.
    “Yo, Vern, let me in, man so I can eat this shit.”
    I let down the window slightly. “What is it, Turk?”
    “I know what you’re thinking. Those guys weren’t after me; I got out of there before the shit got started.”
    “Yeah right.” I was too drunk and hungry to argue with him. I hit the button. “Get in, and don’t let the air out its still hot out.” We ate in silence while the only jazz station in town relaxed my thoughts about the idiot sitting next to me.
    A full stomach, spinning head and a reclined seat equal darkness.
    I didn’t know what woke me, my snoring or the elbow in the ribs. Where was I? In the parking lot of the worst rib joint in town. My head should’ve hurt but it didn’t. “Wake up, the cat naps over.” Turk said. He slipped out of his pants and shirt and changed back into his work clothes.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Changing back to look presentable to my old lady. I ain’t going into a house of ill repute in my work clothes. You got mints?” I nodded. “Chew some, you breath is loud and clear.” I reached into the console and popped several tic-tacs.
    I chuckled. “House of ill repute my ass...crack house is the term. Take your garbage and don’t forget anything.”
    “You not giving me a ride?”
    “I didn’t plan on it, Turk. I’ve had enough adventure for one day.”
    “C’mon Vern, I ain’t far from here.” He flashed a couple of twenties. “For the gas and other shit.”
    “Ok, if you insist.” He grinned and we left.

*

    Several lights were out as we drove down the alley and pulled into the building lot. I didn’t like it. My gut churned and it wasn’t indigestion. The porch of the three flat was dimly lit with a narrow walkway that lead to the front of the building. Turk opened his phone. “Shit, this thing is dead. Sit tight I’ll make sure she’s dressed.”
    “Ok.” I didn’t say I was going in; when he gets out I’m gone. Turk walked down the sidewalk in front of several cars and cut the corner into the gangway. I turned off the a/c and let down the window. The crack of several rapid shots came from the side of the building. I tried to duck down. “Got that muthafucka,” somebody shouted and two guys ran past me into the alley. My heart raced. Did they see me?
    Thank God, my lights were off.
    What do I do?
    Wait a minute then get out of here before the cops saturate the area. I counted to ten then pulled into the alley and drove at a normal speed to the next corner.
    Sirens!
    What the hell. I kept going and turned the corner at the next intersection a wave of blue lights zoomed by. Should I go home? But what if someone saw or followed me?
    My high was blown. I needed another drink. Stupid, but I still made a beeline back to the bar.

*

     The Friday night crowd thickened and the ventilation system was back online. God knows I needed to ease my mind. I knew I was upset when I started talking to the bartender who I couldn’t stand. Uppity people sicken me. I pushed my glass at him. “Another shot and a Miller’s, James.” I belched and excused myself. He poured a half shot.
    “That’s it...go home, Vern, you’re drunk.” He said.
    “You’re right after this I’m gone.” He snarled and went to serve others. What happened to Turk, was he dead? When we drove the alley nobody was around. I felt bad leaving, but he might’ve deserved it, if he really got shot. I kept telling myself; you owe him nothing. Forget him and go home to your family.
    I stood and it hit me. I was drunk again, but in control.
    Famous last words.
    I’d parked close to a corner in a tow zone, something I rarely do. I pulled off and went through a yellow light. The blue lights hit me. I pulled over by LaSalle Street and Van Buren. When the cops pulled off with me cuffed in the back they left my car in the tow and street cleaning zone.

*

    I remember being led down a pale grey hallway that reeked of urine into the proverbial interrogation room with the one bright lamp. “Sit down!” A short bald headed cop with bad breath shouted. Being really drunk I broke the cardinal rule of being stopped on a DUI.
    Don’t blow!
    “.310, you are fucked up!” Baldy shouted.
    “No shit, Sherlock.” I said. They laughed and off to lock up I went.
    The wife was pissed and said jail would sober me up. But, I had to get my car before 6am. Momma to the rescue and she let me have it all the way back to the car.
    Thank God, we made it in time. I moved to a legal spot and she drove me home.

*

    I prepared to close out my window and to my surprise my last customer was Ike. “Surprise Vern, where you been?”
    I shrugged. “Chillin’ like I said I needed. What can I get you?”
    “A roll of stamps. I heard Turk got shot by some young boys. They say he’s on a respirator.”
    “That’s too bad.” I tried to forget that night two months ago. Turks problem came close to being mine. I won’t let it rob me of my serenity and when I thought about it nobody knew I dropped him off. What a relief. I didn’t have to worry about that any longer.
    “Stop by the bar, we miss you.” Ike gathered his stamps and change. “See you later.”
    “OK, be careful.” I had enough to think about; a DUI, suspended license and a car note. I closed out, punched out and went in the opposite direction of the bar like somebody with sense.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...