Last night, restless and feeling like a badger stuck in a leg trap, I sought refuge from my mind under a neon tree. This neon tree is planted at a place called The Park Tavern, my local bar. The old wood paneling and smell of bad decisions in the air helps me iron out the wrinkles in my soul from time to time. It is a good place for the leftover people and cocaine in the Capital Hill area of Denver. Casual and Critical alcoholics of all types stop-in to this suburban oasis or a regular basis.
I sat down by the wet bar and started to talk to a few of the bartenders. I noticed a group of younger twenty-somethings starting to assemble. Four cute girls and six bros. Their voices were heavy and sloppy like they had already had a few shots. Who’s to blame them? So, I ordered a shot of Jameson as my beacon of hope.
My beer and shot hadn’t yet arrived when I heard one of the kids say, “I would never turn down a Jager Bomb.” And I thought to myself, Goddamn, I sure as hell would!
I looked over at this emphatic young lad with a backwards hat, blue shirt on and the youthful exuberance of a baby swinging away at the rotating toy in his crib. Give him a few years, I thought, and some hot regrets and he might change his mind. I wanted to pull the kid aside and tell him some horror stories to shake his nerve a bit and make him shit his pants. He looked like needed some reality in his life. But I knew that he would find out soon enough, and even if he never did, well, at least I have a clear understanding of the demon water that he was about to drink. That’s when I took my shot of Jameson.
Next to him was a beautiful 23-year-old blonde casually grazing his arm and giving him those half-drunk-come-fuck-eyes. I could see one of many futures for the two love birds unfold. In what’ll seem like moment, she will be 45 years old, with two kids and her husband is fucking her sister and she hates drama (so she says) as she rambles on about it for hours… It’s true or at least possible and if he is still drinking the dark brew during those later years, that Jager will make him hate himself in the morning as he wakes up with someone else problems in a life he never wanted. Hell, maybe I was wrong in thinking that and he should keep drinking Jager forever. Shit seems to be going well for him. And now that I think about it I hope they went home and used Jager as birth control.
Shit changes man… That mine-blast of enthusiasm fades, for most. I would do a Jager Bomb or two right now but if I asked my friends to take one with me they would scoff and complain. Maybe one out of the ten friends would be down. And my friends are drinking folks. They like the buzz and the neon tree for shelter and the dance with the devil. And they would be right because I would probably regret the decision in the morning. I have enough of those while doing my taxes. I don’t need to regret Jager. Something about having two Jager Bombs, instead of ten, makes it less appealing. It is a group-think kind of liquor.
If you gave 23-year-old me two cans of Red Bull, a bottle of Jager and a half hour to kill, you might get the urge to sit down with me and have a come to Jesus moment with full knowledge that the devil lives within. I think that spirit died for me in the Summer of 2014. I must have laid it to rest at some moment when the serious parts of life gained ground on the reckless. It all runs together, this life, these days. That’s a painful fact.
The group slowly faded out into the bar and I didn’t see them for the rest of the night. The bar keep told me later that two of the girls and that dude were caught in the bathroom stall together doing blow or each other or whatever luxurious things that I can only imagine. When I heard this I ordered another shot of Jameson and a PBR.
As I scanned the room, I noticed a young woman sitting at the other bar reading under the dim lights and drinking beer. From the distance I was at, she looked attractive and I wondered why she would choose such a place to read in. I found her to be interesting and for a brief moment, I wish I had a book in the bar with me while 23-year-olds are fucking in the bathroom stalls. I could sit next to her and discuss literature and eventually find out she has a boyfriend. This shook me to my soul. But then in the next instant, I just wish I was doing drugs or 23-year-old blondes in the bathroom while high on Jager and Red Bull. It takes some time to find a balance, you know. And clearly it was time for me to go home.
I waved the bartender over, and after we exchanged pleasantries, I ordered myself a Jager Bomb and closed out my tab. I slammed it down with a wince, grabbed a napkin and dabbed my forehead. Maybe I should read the book I started last week, I thought, as went out into the dry, cool Mile High air with a smile on my face. The restlessness was gone and the Jager held my liver with youthful promise as I strolled down the city street.