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G21 #414: Mortuary Notes AMERICAN DREAMS DAY ONE G21 AFRICA JOIN OUR MAILING LIST. It contains more jokes than not. G21 E-MAIL NEWSLETTER GLOBAL*BEAT IRISH EYES MY GLASS HOUSE NEW YORK STATE RECOMMENDED DAILY REQUIREMENT RECOMMENDED DAILY REQUIREMENT ARCHIVES. MEMOIRS OF THE INFORMATION AGE ARCHIVES. LAST WEEK's EDITION MEET THE G-CREW! These are the people behind this jam-band every week. HOME TABLE OF CONTENTS & BACK ISSUES BECOME A SPONSOR OF THE WORLD'S MAGAZINE. WHY should you advertise here? We'll tell you. We know you're lazy. Here's a button for a quick translation of this page. Just click on the flag for your country. You're welcome! OR TRY THIS GOOGLE TRANSLATION SERVICE.

NEW ORLEANS - Flashman has lived in New Orleans for seven years now. He is my friend. We lived in the same apartment twice. He has lived there all along. He never moves; he is like a stone. He has been at the same job for four years, though he hates the job. Drink, work; drink, work; that is the definition of Flashman's life. He is a big man with a big heart, but not a great deal of education or ambition.

Flashman is one of those invisible, nearly faceless, service workers that keeps the tourism industry in New Orleans going. But he is not faceless when he gets off work, has a bit of money in his pocket and drinks whiskey after his beers. Then he becomes a Holy Terror.

The next morning -- or evening, if he arrives at his apartment at daybreak or eight a.m. -- he doesn't remember a bit of what Holy Terror did to you the night before. Not a syllable or a blow, as the case may be. He doesn't remember the dark power of his rage.

"You remember that money you gave me for rent two days ago?"

"I remember everything. That is my curse."

"Gone. All gone. It went straight to my liver."

"You said you were having a good time."

"A good time most of which I can't even remember."

"You remember talking to me when you got home yesterday morning?"

"I did?"

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"I had to let you in. You couldn't find the hole, Shaquile."

"Asshole."

"Glad you remember my nickname."

"What time did I get back?"

"I don't know. About 8:30 I guess."

"So I was out from two until 8:30 in the morning? No wonder I feel like hammered shit today."

"You left at 12:30."

""No way!"

"You came back from your job, took a nap, and got up at about midnight, showered and left. Before your nap you said you were meeting your bartender friend at two. I was surprised you got up so early."

"12:30?"

"12:30."

"Dude, the last thing I remember is making out in the bar with this fifty-five year old woman who says her name is Peanut-Butter-and-Jelly."

"Going for older women now?"

"I t's not the first time I've met her down there." Her paused and got this strange look on his face. "There's something about her that fascinates me."

"So you're sucking face with a woman in her fifties in public, in a bar. The train had already left the station, I gather."

"Yeah. No chance I'd be able to hit chicks my age after that."

"Ya think?"

"I just straight-up blacked out."

"Okay. Not the first time, after all. If I were you, I'd write it off to 'youthful enthusiasm.'"

"I don't know why I do this to myself."

"Take my advice and eat something, Bubula. You'll feel better."

"Think so?"

"Never argue with your bartender."

"Last week you were claiming you weren't a bartender anymore, Dude!"

"Once a bartender ... "

"We got beerage?"

"We managed to go to the store last night while you were out carousing, if that's what you're asking. We realized that someone might get home shit-faced and ask for a brew."

"Dickhead."

"There you go again. Let's restrict it to one epithet. I'm getting used to 'Asshole.'"

"Asshole."

"I knew you were a quick study."

"I need to ask you a question, Rod."

"Oh-oh."

"Just hold on! I'm serious."

"The last time you asked me a question I had to reveal more than I ever want to or you'd comprehend."

"Asshole."

"See what I mean?

"I thought you were going to grab a couple of beers."

"What? Am I the bartender now?"

"You're the closest one to the 'fridge."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Asshole."

Flashman got to his feet and ambled back toward the kitchen. He's a towering guy. Six foot four or five, I'd say. Makes him a good guy to go around with. Most people think that tall guys can kick your ass easily. Too bad that's not so. Yeah, they have reach, but I've found that short guys are more vicious. I stand at 5' 11'. Medium. Most people seem to intuit that I've been in a couple of scraps in my time and know for a fact that you don't get to be a fifty-something Black dude and former bartender without having to throw-down now and again, so they don't push their luck.

I can't remember having to throw a punch in four years, though. Glad of it, too. I'd hate to be the one looking up from the floor again.

When Flashman came back and handed me the can of beer, I said: "You said you have a question."

"Well, yeah. How come all your friends -- at least the ones I know of -- are twenty years younger than you, Dude? What's up with that? How you gonnah meet a woman you can hang with if even the women you know are all younger?"

"Learn to qualify, pal. What you should have said is 'the women you know in New Orleans.' "

"You know something? You can be a real asshole."

" 'Superman, you're a sonuvabitch when you're drunk.' "

"Don't get started on that Superman shit again!"

"Don't worry. He's not here. This is my second beer today."

"You didn't answer my question, Dude."

"What am I supposed to say? I tend to hang with younger people. Most people my age are married and settled down and gave up 'The Swinging LIfestyle' long ago. Maybe I'm just extremely immature. Take your pick."

"Doesn't it ever bother you?"

"How about every damned day. I keep gettin' older and the women all stay the same age."

Flashman was quiet for a moment. He got a strange look that cast a pall over his long face. He grunted. "I don't get it," he said, sounding exasperated, "I know you're a good man. You're probably the only person I ever met who actually lives by his principles, even when it fucks you -- which it usually does, as far as I can see."

"You don't get what? Give me the Reader's Digest version, okay? I don't have a lot of patience."

"Bite me. You know what I mean. The Good Guys, like you, are supposed to get rewarded in this life. What did Bill Clinton say, 'Work hard and play by the rules ---' What the hell happened to that?"

"It was an expedient fairy tale, my friend. The only thing working hard gets you is tired. The only thing playing by the rules gets you is called a sucker."

"Damn! That bleak."

"Don't ask me questions if you don't want an honest answer."

"One more?"

"Beer?"

"Naw, question."

"Didn't I say something about not liking your questions?"

"I just wannah know what you think is going on with my life, now you've been around again for a while."

Oh-oh! This was starting to sound like the Confession Booth again. I need a priest of my own right now, not being a mock-priest for some other lost soul. I squirmed in my seat.

Flashman looked up at me plaintively. (He was sitting down. Normally, I'm the one looking up.) "Well?"

"I'll answer you if you make me a promise."

"What?"

"After this, no more questions until I move out at the end of the month."

"Done."

"Okay." I heaved a sigh. "Seems to me you are just living between black-outs these days. The last seven days of your life have been punctuated by three black-outs that I know about. You hardly get any REM [Rapid Eye Movement] sleep at all, which means that you must be compensating by walking around in something akin to a dreamlike state. That's not healthy.

"What I"m saying is that your judgment is seriously impaired twenty-four and seven.

"I have no clue as to why you're doing this to yourself because you are incapable -- and don't really desire -- of carrying on a serious conversation anymore.

"When you're supposed to be sleeping, you can't do so without your television set blaring some '80s music looped broadcast. You most likely go through your work day in a total haze. I'd be surprised if your bosses didn't know that, too.

"When you're not at work, you're pounding booze and whatever other recreational substances you probably run into. You don't remember, anyway, so how would I know. I've gottah wonder if you're acting out a death-wish and dissatisfied that it's taking so long."

"Shit!" Flashman put his head in his hands. He looked up at me, eyes plaintive again. "You're brutal," he said.

"I thought I was being clinical, for the most part. I only allowed for one judgmental statement, after all."

"Thanks." He actually sounded like he meant it. "What am I going to do?"

"I'm not your therapist or your priest, pal. I'm looking for answers of my own. I'll be homeless next week. You still manage to hold onto an apartment. Who should be advising who?"

"Shouldn't there be a 'whom' in there somewhere?"

"Don't be a wiseass."

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