38 Caliber Eloquence
By Ronald Matthew Kelly
(Copyright July, 2007)
*****
NOTE TO THE READER: (September 3, 2007)
If this story seems disjointed and incomplete, don't worry, it is. When I first posted it, my intent was for it to be the first part of a larger work, and that what you can read below was just an example for Johnny Wraith to critique, as he is a major character in the story.
However, over time, as I considered how I wanted to complete the story, I realized that most of what you see here would be merely a chapter of a larger, more complete story.
So far I have completed three "chapters" of this larger story, the title of which I have yet to create. Each is intended to be a "stand alone" story in its' own right. They are "Vox Vomitus", "Cuba Libre", "Georgie Porgie", and "Ready Aim." All have been posted to this forum.
In the larger story they will appear in the order listed above. However, more stories are in the works to round out the series. My current plans has the series ending up looking something like this, with the stories in the order listed:
What a Day! (working title) - A day in the working life of Ronald.
Vox Vomitus (completed)
Cuba Libre (completed)
Shop Talk (working title) - JW and R discuss professional common ground.
Dancing with Whores (working title) - it is what it is. Know what I mean?
Georgie Porgie (completed)
Suzie's Cue (working title) - R and S discuss life - last round for J, R and S
Ready Aim (completed)
Burger Time (working title) - J and R discuss the night at Jack-in-the Box.
Hook Up (working title) - more R and S
An Epilogue may follow, if any loose ends need to be tied up. Or maybe Suzie ends up getting tied up. Or maybe one two or all three end up in the emergency room. If this happens, I'm sure it will be because somebody overdosed on Testosterone Cypionate. Who the Hell knows? It was a long time ago... memories fade...
Although each story may be read for whatever pleasure you may derive from it, because additional stories intended for the larger work have yet to be written, you may see some continuity errors. For example, I can see that the opening to "Vox Vomitus" prematurely(maybe) reveals something of the nature of "Group Therapy", such revelation working best in "Cuba Libre."
So right now, I would suggest that you NOT read this story (38 Caliber), but instead go on to "Vox Vomitus", "Cuba Libre", "Georgie Porgie", and "Ready Aim", in that order.
If, after reading all four, you discover any continuity errors, please feel free to post your comments.
Thanks,
RMK
***
Prologue
Bwaaaugh! (A feeble ttempt to render into English the sound of alcoholic retching.)
It’s closing time. Another day and its’ companion night have been wasted, spent as if pennies from the never-empty pockets of an oil tycoon.
Of course, were the day and the night actually pennies in the pocket of an oil tycoon, he would never miss them. Hell, if they were pennies in my pocket, I would never miss them, and I’m betting that you, my Gentle Reader, would likewise never miss them, were they but small copper coins. Like pennies in a wishing well or from heaven.
But the days and nights of our lives are not pennies, though we might treat them as such. Most of us spend them as if they were of no consequence, or occurred in never ending abundance. The supply of our days and nights is not infinite: we would do well to treat them as if their value was. Sadly, however, I suspect that most of us do just the opposite. Pennies in a wishing well, pennies from heaven.
As I have gotten older, but sadly, not much wiser, I have come to realize that each day that I have left upon this earth has more value than any number of pennies, in fact, infinitely greater value than even an ingot of pure silver, or even gold bullion. Does this mean I spend them wiser? Sadly, this is not so. All I have gained is the knowledge of all the time I’ve wasted, all the time I’m likely to waste in the future, and the ease with which I accomplish my wasting.
But what does this have to do with the story at hand? It has nothing to do with the story at hand. The truly wise have already discarded this story, for they see it for what it is: a tremendous waste of time. It’s just my way of wasting time, while appearing to look busy. If you were in the room with me as I wrote these few paragraphs, you would say to yourself, “Look at him there, busily typing away at his computer. See the look of such intense concentration he has upon his face. I can’t wait to read what he has written. I’m sure it will be a work of great importance. Or, if it is not an important work, then surely it will have great entertainment value.”
The clever among you have already figured that this will not be a great work. But even the clever among you may be entertained, if stories of drunken debauchery are what you crave. Especially, if stories of drunken debauchery are what you crave. Either way, is my fervent hope that you will stay with me, and read on.
Bwaaaugh! (More retching)
These are my thoughts as I lean my vehicle, the appropriately named “Van of Doom”, while simultaneously discarding the night’s intake of booze.
“Once again, I have not accomplished anything of great meaning, have not added one jot or tittle to the sum of all human knowledge and experience, save for once again proving I am the degenerate’s degenerate.”
Bwaaaaaaaaaugh!
A truly gargantuan puddle of multi-hued vomit appears at my feet, splashing up onto the driver’s door panel of the Van of Doom. It appears to me, in my alcoholic fuzz, that all the colors of the rainbow are represented here. Is this a reaffirmation of God’s promise to never flood the Earth again? No. It is a simple reminder of all the Jello Shooters I had consumed this past evening.
Bwaaaugh.
Shooter Redux.
Chapter One: Cuba Libre
Several years ago, before I had sunk completely into the despair and degradation that my life had become as the result with living with the invader in my skull (A pituitary tumor, in case you were unaware of this fact. But that’s another story.), Johnny Wraith and I used to hang out together. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. So much so, that if at any time neither one of us was working, sleeping, pooping, indulging in self-love, or carousing with the opposite sex, it was likely that we were hanging out together. To the uninitiated observer, it may have seemed like hanging out together was our only reason for existing.
Not that we were in love with each other, because I can assure that that was not, and is not, the case. But we were really good friends, blood brothers, even, who, at that time in our lives, found each other’s company to be more stimulating and fulfilling than the company of almost anyone else, hooker’s and other degenerates excepted. And because we were who we were, the consumption of alcohol was almost always central to our activities together. Actually, if the truth be told, and it always should be, the consumption of alcohol was ALWAYS central to our activities together. Dare I say it? Alcohol was our Third Amigo.
Many a night would find us down out at our favorite watering hole, which as appropriately named (as such places usually were), “Group Therapy. From sundown to closing time, there we’d be, consuming near-fatal quantities of alcohol beverages, all the while singing karaoke songs, and dancing with the local Daughters of the American Revolution. Actually, I did the singing, while Johnny would sit there with a goofy look on his face as he slowly succumbed to the effects of the booze. As for the Daughters of the American Revolution, well, sadly, no such animal was to be found at “Group Therapy.” So we made do with what we had: hookers, sluts, nurses and other tramps. Whom we thoroughly despised. But the potter works with the clay that he has.
At the time, our cocktail of choice was the venerable double Bacardi 151 rum and coke with lime. Yes, I know that the proper name for such a libation is Cuba Libre, but this was not the sort of establishment where such pretensions went unnoticed, or for that matter, physically unpunished. But, throwing caution to the wind, I will hereafter use the term Cuba Libre, because I find I have grown beyond the fear of appearing pretentious or being on the wrong side of a pair of fists. As to the former, well, I am what I am. As to the latter, you’ll have to find me first. Then we’ll talk.
Chosen it because it was possessed of a certain quality, the Cuba Libre was IT for us. Tasty? To be sure, it was that, but then so are many other cocktails. Consider the Tequila Sunrise, the Margarita, and the Strawberry Daiquiri. Are these not tasty beverages in their own right? But taste alone does not confer “most favored beverage” status upon a cocktail in our world. To say the Cuba Libre would get us drunk it a truthful statement, but drunkenness is the natural result of the consumption of any alcohol. This was not our fascination. The fact of the matter was it was cheap. As a matter of fact, relative to the other offerings of the bar, it was quite the alcoholic bargain. One could say it was our alcoholic Holy Grail. We did.
Allow me to explain. (Or if tedious explanations bore you to tears, you are quite welcome to skip over the next few paragraphs, and pick up the story at the section labeled “Re-Entry Point.” You won’t be missing anything crucial to the understanding of this story. But you will miss a very important lesson concerning the economy of alcohol. So maybe it would be best if you read this part after all.). At this particular bar, a “well” drink (so called because it contains a generic alcohol, for example, rum, which is poured from a bottle stored in a well below the bartender’s drink mixing station) was priced at two dollars and fifty cents. To specify a particular brand of alcohol, thereby creating, appropriately, a “call” drink, one was charged an additional fifty cents. Going further, and requesting a double measure of alcohol was only one more dollar. Thus, a standard rum and coke, (with lime, let us not forget) was two dollars and fifty cents, while our favorite double Bacardi 151 cocktail was only a dollar-fifty more.
But hidden in the transaction is the power of the proof. The alcoholic proof, that is. You see, standard rum, whether no-name house, or branded Bacardi, generally has an alcoholic proof of 80, while Bacardi 151 is almost double that, at 151-proof. (Yes, I know that explaining that Bacardi 151 is a 151-proof alcohol is somewhat tedious, when it should be patently obvious that Bacardi 151 is, in fact, a 151-proof alcohol. But, I did say that this paragraph would consist of a tedious explanation of why we liked the drink. And let’s be fair: to some few individuals, this is all new information: I feel I would be doing a disservice to these readers if my explanation was not complete in every detail. I therefore do not feel the least bit guilty for burdening you in this fashion, if you in fact feel so burdened. And anyway, you were warned, so get over it.)
So let us do the math. Counting one well drink containing generic 80-proof rum as one “dose” of booze, the Bacardi 151, at nearly double the proof, must count as (near enough) two doses of booze, while a double Bacardi 151 clocks in at an incredible four doses! Four times the kick at less than double the price? Well, of course, we signed on to that plan immediately! Not that we were cheap. It’s just that Johnny was in grad school at the time, had limited funds, and so was forced by circumstances to be thrifty. And I was, in the words of the great George Costanza, “Very careful with my money.” (Well, what degenerate, semi-alcoholic, chain-smoking, compulsive gambler with narcissistic issues wouldn’t be? But that’s a topic for another story.)
If we were to pretend that this was an infomercial, this would be the moment where the host would exclaim, “But wait! There’s more!” So allow me to say, “But wait! There’s more!” Lest we be exposed for the selfish bastards that we were, and believe me, we were (why would I lie about this?), we felt compelled to share the wealth of the economy of alcohol.
Prior to our discovery that more equals less, which is to say we could have more booze for less cost, Johnny and I would generally limit ourselves.
So the double Bacardi 151Cuba Libre was our alcoholic staple. (Until such time as we discovered Everclear, which is the subject of yet another story.)
Re-Entry Point (Where those who have skipped the section above have re-entered the story line.)
I have changed my mind. (As the author, I am allowed to do this. It is my story, after all.) I have decided, upon reflection, that every word of this story is important, and so to those of you who have skipped down to this section, I must insist that you go back and read the part that you have missed. Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Hmmm Hm Hmmm Hm Hm Hm Hmmmmm (I like to hum while waiting for others to catch up.)
Okay, now that we are all on the same page, I can continue with the story. In the future, should I suggest that you as the reader might like to skip a section or two just ignore me. Remember: every single word is crucial to this story!
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