"Hey, Sal," the man said with a tone characteristic of someone who has had more than a few too many. "Another one."
Sal set the glass he was drying on the shelf and wandered down to the man with a wry smile on his face. He had laid his head on his arms. For a moment Sal thought that he had passed out, but he noticed the bloodshot eyes focusing on a pair of women sitting together at a corner table.
"Hey, Jason, don't you think that you've had about enough?" he asked.
"Look at those two will 'ya. Fucking dykes. Both of 'em." He looked up at Sal. "Enough? Nope. Never have enough. Not even close yet. Another round, if you please, sir."
"Oh, c'mon, Jason. You know I can't do that. Liability laws and all that bullshit. If my boss knew you'd had as much as you have he'd fire me."
Jason MacDonald reached for his left pants pocket, locating it on the second attempt. His tongue wandered to the corner of his mouth as he found what he wanted: his keys and his last $100 bill. He put them on the bar and slid them over to Sal. "When I fall off the stool," he said, "call me a cab. Lock the keys in your register and I'll come back to get my car tomorrow night." Jason raised his arms high, barely catching his balance before he oozed off onto the floor. He wobbled intensely. "Look, Ma. No keys." He put his arms down and knocked his empty glass on its side. "Your boss will regret losing that C-note more than you think." He looked over at the women again and scowled. "Goddamned gash lickers..." he mumbled.
"You promise you won't try to get them later?"
Jason made an "X" over his heart and smiled.
"OK. But you need to leave BEFORE you pass out. OK, Jason?"
Jason winked at him. "No problemo, amigo. And turn that damn jukebox down, huh? That country shit always gives me a headache."
Sal laughed. "It ain't the music that gives you the headaches. It's these," he said as he put the fresh beer on the bar.
As Jason lifted the beer to his face he felt a small ripple of fresh air cut through the stagnant smoke around him. He drank deeply, sighed, and turned toward the front door, laughing softly as half the remains of his beer sloshed onto the bar. The woman in the door looked, well, somehow out of place in this neighborhood. She was too well dressed, somehow cleaner than the other patrons scattered occasionally throughout the room. And she carried herself like Audrey Hepburn did in those aristocratic love stories his ex-wife used to make him watch. As she stepped into the bar and allowed the door to close behind her, Jason whistled softly under his breath and turned back to Sal. "Fresh meat."
"Yeah," Sal replied. "But you done struck out twice tonight already. That one's Nolan Ryan, Jason, and her fastball's gonna blow you away."
"Oh, yeah, she'll blow me alright, but hardly away. The other whores in this joint ain't worth shit compared to her. You know her?"
"Yeah. She comes in 'bout once a week or so. She's some kind of a doctor. Ph.D., not a sawbones. I think. She teaches science or something over at Cal State. And an A-Number-One bitch to boot. No emotions. Kind of like Mr. Spock with tits," he chuckled.
Jason was startled as she sat at the bar next to him, almost sliding off the stool onto the floor. He tried to catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye since turning was a little more than he could muster at the moment. His eyes, alcohol numbed and seeing mainly a red fog, couldn't quite focus clearly enough. Curiosity finally got the better of him and he turned towards her with an exaggerated motion, moving more of his back than his neck. Only a firm grasp on the edge of the bar kept the tidal waves of gravity from pulling him down to shake hands with the floor. He looked her over. She was looking straight ahead as Jason noticed the exposed thighs and the slightest suggestion of panty lines under the skirt. As his eyes continued their slow caresses up her body they paused at the level of her breasts. Her shirt was unbuttoned just slightly below their level, and from the side Jason could see the full contours as well as just a hint of darkness at the center. He looked up at her face. She was of mixed heritage, having some of the classic features of an Oriental face and the long black hair to match, but with an overall Western cast, which, to Jason’s pickled brain, made her the most attractive prospect he had at the moment.
She said something to the bartender that Jason couldn't quite understand and he reached under the counter to mix a drink. He placed it on the bar in front of her and she lifted it to her mouth, taking a series of short sips. As she set it back on the bar she turned to look directly at Jason. Unfortunately for him, his attention had once again turned to that hint of darkness obscured by the almost closed shirt.
"If you want to say something, then say it. If not, I would appreciate it if you would stop staring at my breasts," she said.
Jason blinked quickly, unaccustomed to frankness. "He closed his mouth and swallowed hard, having been caught in the politically incorrect mechanism of ogling a luscious woman," he said, straightening up as best he was able. He extended his right hand in what he hoped was a stable position, and said "I'm Jason MacDonald, writer."
She showed no emotion in her face as she looked at his hand and then at his face. "Why were you staring at me?"
"I'm, uh, not really used to seeing someone like you come in here. Why don't you let me buy you a drink and we can start all over again?"
"I don't think so. I'm not terribly impressed with men who consider me a piece of meat to toss to their pack dog friends. I am not a decoration."
"I, uh, did not mean to apply--uh, IMply--that you were," he stammered. "But the bar isn't exactly full, and when a woman such as yourself sits next to a man he's going to look."
"So then it's my fault that you were drooling over me? What an interesting perspective. And do you normally blame the pedestrian when she steps into the crosswalk and a speeding truck piles into her?"
"No, no, no. That isn't what I was trying to say. Not at all. It's just that you could have chosen a great variety of other accommodating barstools for the evening, and of course I had to look at the person who sat next to mine."
"And you were too drunk to stop yourself, right? I've heard that one before,” she said as she turned back to her drink.
Jason couldn't help but to notice that the shirt had shifted to give him even a clearer view of her breast. It was lovely, almost sculpted. "Look, I really didn't mean to offend. I've had a bad go of it this week--hell, this year--and I was just looking." He chuckled. "If I were a little more sober I'd stand up and offer my apologies. But I'm not." He belched softly. "So I won't. But look, if you come into a bar dressed like that, you'd better expect men to look."
She turned slowly back to him. "Did you ever hear of the concept of privacy, MacDonald? I'm not an ornament. I was minding my own business and I would appreciate it if you would do the same," she said as she picked up her glass and moved several stools down the bar.
"What the fuck is her problem?" he asked to no one in particular.
The bartender parodied a baseball player swinging at the plate. "Steeeee-rike three. You're outta there."
"Whore. That's all she is. Another goddamn femiNazi whore. Did you hear that load of crap? A pretty girl goes off to college and some damn feminist bitch fills her head with all that shit. 'Did you ever hear of the concept of privacy, MacDonald?'," he said, imitating her voice and moving his head back and forth. "Shit." he said, draining his glass. "Well it's whores like her who need a good man. Someone who'll show her what's what. A real man with a big dick."
