Cuba Libre
By Ronald Matthew Kelly
Copyright, 2007
As I had done for so many nights that they stretched without number into my past, like some giant Anaconda from the deepest reaches of the Amazon jungle, I walked into Group Therapy promptly at eight p.m., joining the usual cohort of regular members. Here at last I would find relief from the pressures of the world.
For those heretofore unaware of my history, allow me to be upfront with you. I have severe characters of defect. Were you to meet me in person, if the sun were still in the sky, you might not notice these defects right away, if ever. During the day, like a vampire hides from the light, I refrain from expressing who I really am. But the pressures build, and at the end of the day, when I have accomplished all that I can in the nine to five grind of the workaday world, I retreat to my spiritual oasis, that I may find rest, and recuperation. I renew myself with a session of Group Therapy.
Here in Group Therapy I will be allowed to unburden myself from the weight of the world, to express myself without fear of the judgments of others. Here I will be loved for who I am. Here I am allowed to be what I truly am I. Here I would be supported and sustained by those who understand my Quest to be all that I can truly be. With all the respect, understanding, and love that only those so afflicted as I am can give.
I make my way to my usual perch, third from the corner closest to the door, two empty seats to my left, and one to my right, reserved as they always were, with an excellent view of the entire room. My more than ample rear end had barely made an impression on the stool when tonight’s session facilitator, Suzy Q, approached, surely to offer her usual encouraging kind words of greeting, to and enquire how she might be of service in fulfilling my needs.
“Hey, Ronald, right on time, just like clockwork. I’m so glad to see you. So what will you have tonight? The usual?”
“Actually, Suzy, on my way over here, I thought I would start slow, perhaps with a glass of Bud Light. But now that I’ve arrived, I’ve decided that only turtles and grandmas should take it slow. To Hell with the consequences! Damn the torpedoes, and full steam ahead! You may serve me when ready, Gridley, and don’t stop till you see the whites of my eyeballs, as they roll up into my skull! Tempus Fugit, and Sic Transit Gloria!”
Suzy grinned, rolling her eyes at my soliloquy.
“So you’re saying you want the usual?”
“Yeah, Suzy… that’ll be fine.”
“Okay, one double Bacardi 151rum and coke, ‘con limon,’ coming right up!”
I loved it when she spoke in a foreign tongue!
As Suzy drifted away towards the drink prep station at the other end of the bar, I admired the way she swayed back and forth as she moved, hinting at the delectable ass that must surely be hidden beneath the skirt she was wearing. If the truth be told, and here at Group Therapy, it always was, I believed that I would give anything to see that ass in all it’s naked glory.
Legend has it that I had had such an experience one night, when Suzy was bored and had invited me back to her place after closing the bar. However, since I had been too inebriated to remember anything between walking into her bedroom, and the bowl of cold cereal she served me in the morning, sadly, it must remain a legend. Sadder still, she had not invited me to repeat the experience. Had I been too much man for her? Or not nearly enough? I cannot say, and fear the consequences of speculation. “Veni, vidi, vici?” Who’s to say, for I cannot recall.
She placed the libation in front of me, asking,
“Will Johnny be joining you tonight? Shall I have one ready for him?”
I looked at her deadpan.
She stared back.
In unison, we both laughed.
“Sorry, Ronald… bit of a brain fart there. For a moment, I forgot who I was talking to. Please excuse me.”
The look on her face was adorable, so I gazed with adoration upon it.
“Its okay, Suze, happens to everyone at times. I mean, look at me: vainly imagining that that I might start the evening with a mere glass of beer!”
She laughed. I nearly swooned, intoxicating as her laughter was!
“Yeah… he called earlier, and said he would be about five minutes late, so you might as well get his ready right now…”
“Okay. Should I start a tab?”
“…and go head and start a tab.”
We both grinned like fools, she for the absurdity of her question, me because I was treated to the view of her bottom as she walked away.
Sic Transit Suzy.
***
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, performing various acts of self-love, carousing with the opposite sex, or recovering from over-indulging in our various vices, it was almost a certainty that we were hanging out together. To the uninitiated observer, it may have seemed like hanging out together was our only reason for existing. Such an existence would not be unfulfilling from my point of view.
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, hookers 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 as I have said before, at Group Therapy it always was, the consumption of alcohol was ALWAYS central to our activities together. Dare I say it? Alcohol was our Third Amigo.
Many a night, most of them, in fact, would find us down out at Group Therapy, our favorite, and most appropriately named, watering hole. From sundown to closing time, there we’d be, consuming near-fatal quantities of alcoholic 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 at the bar, or with a group of floozies, 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, all of whom we thoroughly despised. But, hey, 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 certainly did. Sir Percival’s single-minded devotion to the service of HIS quest for the Holy Grail paled by comparison to how we devotedly we serviced OUR grail, once we had found it!
Allow me to explain.
At Group Therapy, 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, (‘con limon’, 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, 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. Get over it.)
So let us “do the math”, as they say, whoever They are.
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 another topic, for another story. Stay tuned.)
If we were to pretend that this was an infomercial, this would be the moment where I, as your 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. From the money that we saved on the cost of our drinks, we would leave much larger tips. Needless to say, bartenders everywhere loved us for our largess. And why wouldn’t they? Its barely more work to construct a double over a single, just an additional upending of the bottle, barely a second or two of time.
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. Afterwards, the sky was the limit. Our Blood Alcohol Limit, that is.
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.
***
As Suzy returned with Johnny’s drink, the great man himself sat down to my left, leaving one open stool to HIS left, as I had to MY Right, in hopes that soon we would have companionship of the feminine form, one to MY right, and one to HIS left.
“Hey, Ronald, I see you’ve started without me, asshole!”
It was his standard greeting, but Suzy rose to my defense.
“Mind your manners, Johnny, I’ll have none of that! This is his first.”
Placing his drink before him, she continued.
“And, gentleman that he is, he ordered one for you. So behave yourself!”
This last being delivered with a tone of mock severity.
“Thanks, Suzy. Touché!”
“Okay, then. Let me know when you’re ready for another round. It’ll be on the house.”
(And why not? Surely our monthly tab alone would service the bar’s lease!)
Suzy smiled, turned, and walked away. Both Johnny and I admired her bottom as she left us.
“Tell me the truth, Ronald. You hit that, didn’t you?”
“Johnny, as I have said so many times before, I truly do not recall.”
“I know, I know… ‘Bedroom, breakfast, blank!’”
“No doubt… hey, that’s a nice little alliteration you have there! It’s also a mnemonic, who’s only purpose is to remind me of that which I can’t remember. Somewhat ironic, wouldn’t you say, Johnny?”
“Yeah… I would. Cheers, by the way.”
Our glasses clinked.
“Cheers!”
Johnny looked at me with a mischievous grin.
“So, what’s on the agenda for tonight, Ronald?”
I returned his grin with one of my own.
“The usual, of course… the usual!”
Our glasses clinked again. In unison we cried,
“TO DEGENERACY!”
And so the night began…
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