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The Captain

Adam Kluger

    “Come on KIRK—get it up and down already or we are going to miss the time slot,” the agitated TV Executive yelled into the edit-room. “You are making it difficult for me to do my job correctly,” he said as he stormed away confident that Kirk would be replaced by a better, younger and hotter free-lance producer by next show and that there would be other folks still in need of a firm kick in the pants before the end of this LIVE show.”
    “Come on it’s my Birthday, buy me a drink.” The two old high school frenemies, soccer competitors at the same position, sat at the bar and ordered tequila. The Birthday boy wanted his chilled. It had been a long night. As he turned to his right he greeted a snaggle-toothed gent who he immediately recognized as a middle-aged version of the high school Drummer. Apparently he had purchased the trendy dive bar that catered to all the young cool folks. Suddenly, a beautiful co-worker with freckles and wide eyes said “there you are —here’s your birthday present.”
    She stuck what felt like a small straw in his mouth and lit it. “It’s really good pot from Germany,” she whispered. She pressed her soft lips against his, he opened his mouth and she sucked some of the smoke back into her lungs as well. “Cute friend,” the suddenly jealous frenemy whispered.
    The three men were walking briskly down the street.
    “I’m going to get back into cage fighting—it’s been too long.”
    “So this guy whipped it right out on the yacht and he’s like “check out my friend Gamera!”
    “Oh shit,” “How did the girls react?”
    “Everyone was laughing and totally wasted— it was a crazy scene.”
    They all had come to his birthday party—even though he was busy with a video project and totally preoccupied. They had seen him in action first-hand guide the lifeboat through the marshes past the flames and deadly snakes. He taught them all how to eat the organs of the dead and survive and then toss the bodies overboard and keep going. He was a battle-tested and he taught his young charges to find their own inner beast. To let it out and go forth in the jungle, killing and running and howling always at the moon. Plus it sounded like free beer.
    So what if he had let the young guys order the beer and the place tried to charge his credit card $700 for a keg? A quick discussion with the bartender would fix the matter.
    “No keg—just pitchers—and where’s the food?”
    “You know that there are people lined up around the block to get into your party and you’ve got to feed them, right?”
    “Alright pizza and those salty pretzels.”

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