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Tuesday, October 17, 2006

My first time at Stormy’s

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    “Mind if I sit here?” I asked.


“Suits me three ways Tuesday.” He had a derby hat with an Iowa State logo. His skin hung off his face such that I could see the moist red lines on the inside of his bottom eyelids. He had one liver spotted hand on his cane and the other around his drink.

“Show some class Luan,” he cracked his cane across the bartender’s ass as she walked by. “I’m dry woman.”

“I’ll dry you,” she playfully shook her fist in his face and smiled. There were very few teeth in there.

He blew his nose into a handkerchief and inspected the contents. I finished my beer and got up to get another.

“Na, na,” he slapped me hard on the thigh with his cane. “Make her come to you; you don’t want her gettin uppity.”

“Suuuui! Suuuuuuuui! – here piggy-piggy, we got two dry boys.” He punched his cane in the air like a pistol.

“Thanks for the drink, my names Justin,” I held my hand out. He laid his cane on the table. It had a yellow lightning bolt painted along the length of it.

“My god given is Van Foley – but I ain’t never taken up with him, so call me Swift.”

Swift had one hell of a handshake, and he was bull dogging me. Cranking down and pulling me toward him. “Know what a man’s shake says about him?” He asked, making his face into a scowl. I was close enough to see some of those grey nose hairs curling back around the outside of his nostrils. “Squirrel jizz, that’s what.” He slapped his hand on his knee, broke into a laughing fit and threw his cane into the air – snatched it mid twist and leaned his weight on it.

“What brings ya Justin?”

“The Iowa State game. Suzy Q’s my normal bar, but their TVs are shit and a friend of mine told me about Stormy’s three big screens.”

He brought his handkerchief out of his back pocket and hacked the contents of his lungs into it, “Iowa State got about as much a chance a winnin today as I do of layin it to my neighbors daughter, sweet little fourteen year old, gymnast is what she is – out there back flippin on that trampoline with her shorts ridin up that tight shaft… but, you never know, one of these days I might hop on there with her… you know what Iowa State’s problem is?” He asked in a tone that told me he knew the answer.

I finished off my fifth beer. “Well, they play a little conservative on D…”

“No, no, you’re over complicating it, what it is is they’re about eight nigger bears shy of really making something happen. Now a good bull nigger, he needs some blond thick thighs to run through and he needs some of that jigger music. Now you get him on a visit up in Ames, Iowa and what you got? You got some farm girls he can screw, but not enough of em… and he sure don’t get none of that jigger music he needs.”

“Chili’s on!” the bartender called and set a crock pot on a card table at the back of the bar.

“Go get ya some chili; she makes it with lamb’s meat – better than a midget blowjob.”

“No, I’m good; you want me to grab you some?”

“I may be eighty-three, but I ain’t no invalid, see these knuckles?” He shoved his right fist under my nose. His middle and index knuckles were the size of golf balls. “I was golden gloves champ fifty-six through sixty-five and I still got some quarter horse spurt in me.”

He jumped up and went for the chili.

A man in a pair of greasy Carhart overalls leaned back on his chair and looked in my direction. “Don’t listen to a word he says, he’s full a shit, and crazier than a sack full of left handed door knobs. He was homeless out in Chicago - sleeping in a dumpster and got mashed halfway in a garbage truck.”

I watched Swift walk back with his bowl of chili. He still had linebacker’s shoulders, freakishly bowed legs and it didn’t look like he needed that cane one bit.

He drank his chili in two slurps and then we started alternating tequilas.

“Fuck, I’m hit Swift, I’m gonna hafta walk home.”

“I’ll give you a ride you fuckin lightweight, let me get another bowl of chili first.”

“Fuck, thanks Swift, if you’re drivin lets have one more tequila – Tequila! Tequila!” I held my empty shot glass in the air and wailed.

Somehow, I made it into the passenger seat of his old boat of a Cadillac. “3226 47th, take a left after the Kum and GO,” I slumped against the door.

I felt the hum of the tires against the pavement, my body shifted lifelessly with the turns and then we were stopped.

“Thanks Swift,” I turned and muttered while searching for the door handle.

“I had a good egg breakfast, so I got something for ya.”

“Wha?”

I squinted my eyes through the vertigo enough to see him unbuckling his pants with his left hand and then the tip of his cane which was now a long blade was stiff against my windpipe.

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