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The
Life and Daily Death of Sam Mackie
By
Steven Hoadley
Episode Two
- Even Jesus Farted
Neil's Lounge.
My favorite watering hole. I loved the lack of light, the lack of all things bright. Sometimes a guy just needed to crawl in his hole. Neil's was my hole.
A hole with a bar.
It was a Sunday and I’d been in jail since the previous Thursday waiting for the police to sort out the whole James nightmare. Lucky for me, James had a reputation. The guy was a walking murder weapon. Apparently he’d done time for far more hideous shit than even I knew. Why they ever let him out, I didn’t ask. I made a note to self: Start picking friends more carefully.
I walked in, and there they sat. The same faces drinking the same drinks talking the same shit. Everyone had a personal barstool, each one bearing the permanent impression of its owner's ass.
I slipped comfortably into my personalized vinyl ass-mold, lit my last Camel, and waited.
Art brought me a bourbon with a beer back. The benefit of having a home bar – No need to order.
Art was retired Navy, thirty years. He bought Neil's from Ray. Ray bought it from some guy named Hank. Hank took it over from his Dad, Hank Sr. I never asked where Neil came in. Art always had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, an extension of his face. He wore a thin mustache and was a thin man, except for the small bubble-gut straining against his large, silver ‘Winchester rifle’ belt buckle.
"How ya doing, Sam?" He asked.
"Vertical and sucking air, Art. Vertical and sucking air.”
"Beats horizontal and suckin’ dick, I guess.”
“Good point.”
“Where ya’ been, anyway? Ain’t seen ya’ in awhile.”
"Just got out of jail.”
"Get out.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, don‘t feel too bad, Sam. I‘ve been sittin’ behind bars forever. Ain’t much difference between the one your sittin’ at and the one ya’ just got out of if ya‘ ask me. Look around. Most these old goats ought to be locked up anyway.”
I glanced around. Miserable Mabel was planted at the far end of the bar. She had the look of the embalmed. Her expression-less face moved only when yelling to Art for more booze or scolding some wayward stranger for taking her barstool. Webster's definition of catatonic.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.
I drank my shot and slid it back to Art. He filled it, then took his towel and wiped off the bar.
“So what’d they get ya’ for, Sam?”
"You’re not going to believe it. You know James, right?
"Yeah. Come to think of it, haven‘t seen him for awhile, either."
"Well, you won’t be seeing him anytime soon, that‘s for Goddamn sure. Last week we’re doing our route, right? We stop at this store and--”
My story was interrupted by the sound of Mabel’s raspy cry for more booze.
"Goddamnit, Mabel. Hold your liver, I’m coming!” Art yelled down to her.
"Hold that thought, Sam."
Art shuffled down, filled Mabel's glass with vodka - straight, then disappeared to the back stockroom.
I squashed my Camel out in the ashtray. Besides Miserable, other stools were occupied by Burt and Betty, Pedo Pete, Danny the Apostle and Hoghead Bob.
We were a crowd who would normally not jell. Neil's was our washing machine and we were the mixed colors.
I perched alone on my barstool, drinking my beer and letting my shot of bourbon settle. One of the new country songs that really wasn't country, filled the background.
"What's the worst thing about eating a bald pussy?"
The voice asking that question came from behind. It was Pete the pedophile.
"Pete, I really don't feel like--"
"PUTTING THE DIAPER BACK ON!"
Pete bellowed while I gagged.
"Oh Pete, for Christ’s sake, man!"
"Pretty fucking good, eh Sam!"
"No, Pete. It was fucking sick. Tell that to a Goddamn kindergarten teacher and see where it gets you."
"For crying out loud, Sam. It was just a joke. What's wrong with you today? You're looking out of sorts over here."
"I'm fine. I just got out of jail. You won‘t believe what I‘ve been through."
Pete was a short man, no more than five-two, tops. He had thick shoulders, squared off like he carried a two-by-four across his back. He had a full, bushy mustache and a permanent red, infectious-looking growth on his nose that never went away. One of his eyes constantly twitched in its socket, like he had long ago ingested some nasty drug and lost motor control as a result.
He climbed up and slid into the stool next to me. It wasn't his normal chair so he fidgeted around for a moment, trying to get his butt settled into someone else's groove.
"Talk to me, man. I'm listening."
"Well, you remember James, right? That crazy fucker that used to sit down there by Mabel?
He nodded.
“I don’t know if you knew, but we were working together.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Good point. Well anyway, last week we were out making deliveries. The fucking guy is drinking heavier than I notice, right? We get to this liquor store and we go in and--”
"You know, Sam, even Jesus farted," he said, cutting me off.
I never knew what train Pete was riding. I grabbed my shot of bourbon, drank it and chased it.
"Pete, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm saying that even Jesus farted, man. He was human. He got sick, caught flu bugs, had the runs, ate his boogers -- the whole thing. I think he even got high and--"
"I don't recall reading that in the Bible."
"They left it out, wasn't necessary to the plot."
"Look, you want to hear what happened with me or--"
Pete ignored me, he was on a roll.
"In fact, he was thirty-three when they executed him, an old man in his day. Their life spans were only thirty-five back then." His eyes were really vibrating now. You could almost hear his brain backfiring from not hitting on all cylinders.
"You know," he continued, "If he wouldn't have been crucified, chances are he would have died soon after from some kind of bowel blockage or something, anyway. God knows the intestinal rot they suffered in those days due to lack of proper food handling."
"Pete, please. What‘s your point?"
"I didn’t know I was supposed to make one," he answered.
Pete exhausted me.
“All right. Look, I just want to sit in quiet for awhile, okay?”
“Sure, Sam. I was on my way to the pisser. I‘ll be down at my stool if you want to talk.”
“Thanks. I’m comforted by that.”
Pete got up and bounced away.
I never prayed, but I thanked Pete's God for getting rid of him.
Art was back behind the bar. He noticed I was without bourbon and filled me up.
"Sorry, Sam. So you and James were doing deliveries?"
"Yeah. We stop at this store. James was putting them down pretty solid, you know. And then--”
The phone rang.
"Hold that thought, Sam."
Art answered the phone. He pulled up his stool, sat down, crossed his legs and lit a smoke. He was going to be there awhile.
I sat quietly nursing my beer, when I felt a hard smack on my back. It sent my chest slamming against the bar.
"What the fuck!"
"Hey, Sam. What's tickin‘?"
It was Hoghead Bob.
Hoghead didn't know his own strength. He stood six and a half feet tall and weighed two-fifty, easy. Some said Hog got shot in the head in 'Nam and that's why he couldn't hold a thought. One second he'd be talking about his war days, then without warning, launch into a soup recipe, followed by tears, then back to the war. I liked him.
"Hog, you need to watch that shit, you 'bout knocked one of my lungs up, man."
"Sorry, Sam."
Hoghead asked me for a smoke. I told him I was out, so he offered me one. I declined his offer and he started on his way, when I offered to buy him a drink. Hoghead was slow, stupid and illiterate, but not insane. He plopped down on what was now the visiting barstool.
"Wine cooler. I'd like a wine cooler," he told me.
“Wine cooler? Who the fuck drinks wine coolers?”
“I do,” he answered.
"Good enough. Gotta wait ‘till Art gets off the phone, though."
We sat together in a stupid silence. I needed someone to dump my story on, and I thought Hoghead would do, but glancing over at his jutting chin, and sloppy, floppy, greasy lips, I knew I'd made a mistake.
"Art may be awhile Hog; I'll send your drink down."
"I can wait."
Shit. Why not, I thought.
"You know, Hog. Last week me and James were making deliveries, and--”
"I saw a gook's head get chopped off by a trip wire once."
I should’ve known.
He continued. "We got drunk one night and strung up a trip-wire, neck-high, on the road outside camp, just to see what would happen. Sure as shit some gook on a scooter came buzzing by and hit the fucker perfectly. The bike kept going for a hundred feet and their lay his head, eyes still blinking, looking at himself drive down the road. Weirdest fucking thing you ever saw."
"Jesus, Hog, that’s fucking sick!"
"We were drunk."
"And your point?"
He lowered his head as if I hurt his feelings. I wanted him to go away.
I looked for Art. The bastard had slipped off somewhere, I needed more booze.
"Sam, do you think I’m going bald?” Hoghead asked.
I ignored him. I needed to piss. I got up and headed to the bathroom. As I walked down the dark hallway towards the toilet, I passed Art on his way out.
“Need a refill, Sam?
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be out in a second.”
I started to push the door open, but was met with resistance from the other side. I let up. Danny the Apostle came slinking out.
We paused awkwardly for a moment. Danny wasn’t big on words and always seemed uncomfortable in his own hide, skittish almost. When you did engage him, all he could talk about was Jesus and Armageddon type shit. I couldn‘t take him for long.
“It’s all yours, Sam,” he said meekly, not making eye contact.
“Thanks, Danny.”
When you stand at the pisser it was really the one time you could inspect, up close, what the paint on a wall was really doing. It changes over time. It chips, it flakes, it bubbles up. I wondered if men's alcohol-heavy breath made it decay in that one particular spot, or was it universal? I looked around at the ceiling and neighboring walls. They looked to be in better shape than the patch of paint and plaster that lived over the urinal. There were also various profanities scratched into the paint, along with meeting times for blowjobs in the shitter stall. One said: I suck your cock on Sunday’s 6PM. Be here. Sick fucks, I thought.
I zipped up and stopped at the sink. I considered washing my hands until I looked at the basin. It looked like someone had shit in it. I left.
Hoghead still sat next to my barstool. I didn't want to talk to him anymore. I decided to go down and bum a smoke off Mabel. Depending on how much she‘d had to drink, she might even listen to my story.
"Mabel, got a smoke? I just ran out."
She pushed her pack of Parliaments my way and said nothing. I took one and lit it.
"How ya' doing, Mabel?" I asked.
"I'm a liver. I‘m like a big, hardened, spotted liver."
Oh fuck.
"A what?"
"A liver. My whole life, a liver.”
I needed to get away from her. She was making Hoghead and Pete sound sane.
"Thanks for the smoke, Mabel." I started to slink away, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
"Every fucked up thing in the world passes through me first,” she continued. I paused. I couldn't walk away from her in mid-sentence. I would have to wait for a break.
"It‘s like I’m a goddamn filter of all the shit. Anything that’s ever been any good has passed through and I kept all the trash -- All the men, all the money -- everything. I keep the crap and the good ones filter on through. I always end up at the bottom. Goddamn motherfucking, no-good-for-nothing, cocksucking-- “
Then suddenly, in mid-obscenity, Mabel launched into a coughing spasm that looked as if she might blow an eye out. Her face strained with blood, snot bubbles popped from her nose. Phlegm flew out in smelly brown globs, landing on the bar, her glass -- my arm. I backed up.
She pulled herself together, lit another cigarette, and continued . . . .
“Doctor told me I have brain parasites. I catch every goddamn bug that strays within a mile of me. I swear they hunt me down, ‘Virus convention in the old bitch’s body, come on boys!’ My liver’s shot, too -- cirrhosis. Goddamn Yellow Cab could use me as an ad. Look at me, look at my skin! I’m yellower than a bucket a piss. I’m dying -- fuck it all to hell, I’m dying . . . . Buy me a drink, Sam?"
How could I not?
"Sure, Mabel. I'll send it down. Nice talking to you. Sorry about everything. Thanks for the smoke."
"Sure, Sam. Anytime.”
Walking back to my stool, I was accosted by Betty and Burt.
Burt was a cross-dresser. Art allowed him a once-a-month quota for coming in dressed as a woman. He never shaved his legs, wore a full beard, and bought his evening gowns at Goodwill. He over-dressed for Neil's and stuck out like a crack-whore in a Hilton. Art didn't want him scarring Neil's reputation, but he liked Burt, thus the once-a-month rule. Tonight was Sunday, Burt‘s big dress-up night.
Betty was Burt's wife. A big woman with massive breasts and an even bigger ass. It sort of went un-said, but everyone knew that if they needed an emergency knob-job, Betty was your girl. She supplemented their income with the blowjob money she made at Neil's. I'd never used her, but heard she could suck the calories out of a hot dog.
"Sam, how are you?" asked Burt.
"Hey, Burt.“
"Going to be here tonight? You realize it‘s my night, don‘t you? Wait until you see the clingy little thing I picked up yesterday. Doesn't leave much for the imagination!"
Burt was giddy. Burt weighed in at two-hundred-eighty pounds. Burt was five foot five. Burt was going to make me vomit.
"Can't wait, Burt. Gonna give me the first dance?"
"Stop that, Sam. You know you don't like to dance."
I felt Betty staring at me.
"How ya' doing, Betty?"
"Real good, Sam. Buy me a drink?"
"Sure, come on down, you can get rid of Hoghead for me."
We shuffled down the bar. Betty tried looping her arm around mine, like she was the Belle of the Ball wanting to show off her new man. I pretended to pick my nose and she stopped trying.
We arrived at my barstool and I slapped Hoghead as hard as I could across his back. He barely flinched. "Heya Hoghead!"
"Oh, hey Sam."
"Hoghead, can Betty take your spot? As soon as Art gets back, I'll send down your wine, okay?"
"Wine cooler, Sam. Wine cooler."
"Wine cooler, right. Thanks Hog."
Hoghead lumbered off the stool and plodded off in his Neanderthal way.
We plopped down on our barstools and Betty took out two smokes. She lit one off her Zippo, handed it to me, and then lit her own.
"Betty," I said. "Don’t you get tired of Burt and his dressing up stuff?"
"Sometimes, but he's really sweet to me. And after the men I've had in my life, I’ll take sweet over sexy any day. I put up with it. Sometimes it's even fun. I put on a strap-on and fuck him while he wears his dress. Sort of kinky, I think."
"I don't think I wanted to know that, Betty."
"Too late now," she said.
We sat and smoked.
"Betty, can I tell you about what happened with me last week?"
"You want a blowjob, Sam? Ten bucks for you, honey."
"I told you before, I don't like paying for it."
"I'll give it to you on credit. You can pay me in drinks."
"No thanks, Betty. I appreciate it though."
I felt her hand crawl around and squeeze my crotch.
"You sure?"
Maybe it would take my mind off my worries, I thought.
"Burt won't get mad?"
"Burt never gets mad, he's fine. We can go in the stockroom."
"Fuck it, let's do it," I said.
We got up and headed towards the back, walking a wide path around Mabel, lest we get caught up in her shit again. The stock room was behind the pool table. I opened the door and surprise. Art was sitting on a crate, cigarette hanging out his mouth, pants down, knobby white knees sticking out, while Danny was on all fours, bobbing up and down between Art’s legs. Danny looked back and Art looked up. They didn't make any attempt to jump up and act as if. There was no mistaking what was going on. They all looked at me like I was supposed to do something. The silence was thick and disturbing.
Finally, I had to make a move. Someone had to.
"Um . . . sorry guys!" I closed the door meekly, leaving them to their sex act.
I turned to Betty, "What time is it?“
She looked at her watch. “Little after six.”
I thought of the writing over the urinal.
“Why?”
“Nothing. You know, I just don’t feel like that blowjob anymore, Betty, know what I mean?”
"I don't either, Sam. I don't either."
We walked back to the bar, and slid back into our barstools.
We sat in silence for some time, staring at the mirror behind the bar. You could see everyone in that mirror, and we were all doing the same thing: Sitting, drinking, smoking, and staring. Everyone faced it, but not really. It had become, over time, just another picture. The people in the reflection weren't us. They were losers from some anonymous barroom in some anonymous place. We weren't like them, we had lives.
Someone passed gas. It was loud.
Even Jesus Farted, I suppose.
Next Month! A New Episode!
The Life and Daily Death of Sam Mackie
Sam Finds True Love
But will it be at the bottom of a bottle?
Copyright © 2005 Steven Hoadley
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