We pulled some tables together and snagged more chairs and soon there was about a dozen of us, each an apprentice in the ancient trade of chug-a-lugging the first four beer and belching loudly; buying another round; feeding the jukebox; throwing change into a glass for the waiter's tip; ogling the whores; telling fag jokes; buying a bowl of pickled eggs for the table and a round for the guys over there from the Jonquiere because how would you feel if you were on the 'Johnny Queer'?; asking the kid about his family and telling yourself you're leaning over to hear his answer and not to study his crotch; wondering why that Yankee sailor is crying; spilling beer into your lap; buying another round; trying to find the head; feeling your heart pound when your farm boy follows and stands beside you; watching him piss; zipping up quick because even though you're drunk you know you'll fuck it up; buying more pickled eggs; telling more fag jokes; feeding the jukebox; gorging on cheeseburgers; dodging a flying beer glass and all of you standing up together to kill the bastard who did that; cheering the waiters as they throw the bastard who did that onto the sidewalk; wrapping your arms around each other's shoulders because you are with the best bunch of wingers anyone could ever have; knowing in your heart you would die for them while believing in your heart they would kill you if they knew you were queer; filling the waiter's tip glass to overflowing; buying more cigarettes; trying to ignore your churning stomach; watching your farm boy slide to the deck like a wet fish; helping to carry him to the head; caressing his face with cool water; not feeling him up while you're holding him because even though you're drunk you know you'll fuck it up; holding him over the toilet while he pukes an ocean of beer and almost puking yourself because you can't stand the stink; chipping in to pay for a cab to take him back to his ship and watching yet another who has touched your heart disappear forever; feeding the jukebox; farting the first of 137 rotten egg farts; buying another round; telling more fag jokes; listening to them tell about the fag bars in Seattle and the fag bars in Frisco; wishing you could suck a cock; being ashamed of what you are thinking; missing your family; stumbling to the head again; trying to get your fly open; finding it hilarious your zipper is stuck; having someone offer to help you open it; fleeing in panic because even though you're drunk you know you'll fuck it up; believing you might really be crazy; wanting to kick the shit out of that stupid jukebox; wishing you were dead; watching the room slowly spin; being afraid Casey has left without you; finding him laying under a table and going nearly sober with panic because you think he's dead; screaming with fury because everyone thinks it's funny; trying to defend Casey's honour; trying not to cry; trying not to puke; staring into a toilet without knowing how you got there; flashing to the time you were ten years old and nearly drowned as you disolve into a disgusting stew of beer and cheeseburgers and pickled eggs; wondering if things would have been different if you'd been born in Lundar Manitoba; having Casey stand beside you with that crazy Audie Murphy grin, looking as fresh as eight hours sleep as he grabs your arm and shouts: "C'mon Sweetman, let's get outta here!"
| STORY MENU | PREVIOUS PAGE | NEXT PAGE |
|---|