Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [87]
—Thanks, fellas.
Me and the PBR guy watch her ass as she walks back to the service bar to take care of another cocktail waitress. PBR shakes his head.
—Damn. That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.
A dancer in a formfitting green slip dress presses herself up against PBR’s back. Her hand slithers through his buzzed hair.
—Cowboy, if that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen, you need a dance with me.
PBR looks her up and down.
—Honey, you are damn right about that.
—Well c’mon, Hoss, I’ll give you the rest of this song and all of the next.
She walks away with him trailing behind like a dazed child. He looks back at me.
—See, ya ’round, pal. Thanks for the Burt Light.
He hoists his beer in the air. I stand up on the foot rail of my stool to keep him in sight.
—Hey, why ya call them that?
But he’s gone.
—That’s what they call them in Oklahoma. ’Cause Burt Reynolds drinks Coors.
The bartender with the lowriders is in front of me. She places a Coors Light on the bar.
—Burt Light.
She places a Coors Original next to it.
—Burt Heavy.
I pull out another twenty.
—I’ll take one of each.
She pops both tops, puts the beers next to my almost full Bud, takes the twenty, and looks at the three beers.
—Got some catching up to do.
—Baby, I’ve been resting up for this.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I slip off my stool. T catches me.
—Whoa!
—T! T, where ya been? This place is great! I’m having a great time.
I guzzle beer and some of it slops onto my shirtfront. T grins.
—I thought you weren’t drinking.
—Who me? No, you have me confused with some limp-dick, pussy motherfucker who doesn’t know what’s good for him.
—Well, what ain’t good for you is drinking while you’re on Percocet. You’re lucky you can stay on that stool at all.
—Stay on the stool? Stay on the stool! That’s the least of what I can do.
I start climbing up to stand on the stool and T pulls me back down.
—C’mon, King Kong, let’s get you back in your head.
He’s tugging me from the bar.
—Wait a sec, wait a sec.
I grab at my beer, but it’s not where it looks like it is and I knock it over.
—Aww, fuck man, look what ya made me do ta Burt.
My head bobs around on the end of my neck. Colored lights whirl through the air, cowboys and pole-dancing beauties orbit irregularly around me. The sweat covering my body goes cold-hot-cold-hot.
T leads me into the john. We walk past the condom machine and the line of occupied urinals, to the second of three stalls. We both squeeze in and he closes the door. I lean against the partition and start to slide down. T grabs me and sets me on the toilet seat. He takes a fold of magazine paper about half the size of a matchbook from his vest pocket, leans over me, and shakes its contents onto the back of the toilet tank. A tiny heap of rough yellowish crystals. He gets out his lighter and presses it flat against the pile and rocks it firmly side to side, the crystals making little crunching noises as he pulverizes them into powder. He lifts the lighter away and licks some dust that is clinging to its side. Finally, with an old Kinko’s copy card from his wallet, he shapes the brown powder into two fat lines, gets out a twenty, rolls it into a tight cylinder, and hands it to me.
—Batter up.
I look at the twin lines of crank.
—I don’t think I’m up to that, T.
—Hank, this is your doctor speaking. We have people to talk to, things to do, and you’re about set to go all gape-mouthed and drooly on me. You need to wake up and get your head back in the game, superstar, and this is what’s gonna get you there.
What is he talking about? People to talk to? Man, I just want to relax at the bar. I look again at the crank. But hey! I seem to remember being able to drink like a maniac on this shit. I stick the rolled bill in my nose, place the other end against one of the lines, and inhale.
It burns. It burns like a motherfucker. Like a hot razor blade being dragged down my nasal passage to the top of my esophagus, where it stops and a bitter, mucousy poison drips down the back of my throat. I rip my face away from