Ridin' the Rails

St. Patrick’s day is a lot like Thanksgiving except instead of eating, you drink. Instead of making the rounds, traveling house to house seeing family and friends, you buy some rounds and hop from bar to bar. St. Patty’s day is a drinker’s holiday. Of course, a drinker doesn’t need an excuse, such as St. Patty’s day, to drink. But it sure is nice having everyone out with you getting belligerent fucked up.

Friday night was a blur.

Somehow found myself at a gay club meeting up with some friends and we wound up staying. A total dive, bottom-rung bar. An old warehouse half-assedly converted into a dance floor and a tiny stage for the occasional drag show. I’m fucked up beyond comprehension. Shot after shot, line after line, and three breathy hits of rock make my heart race and twitch with rapid-fire palpitations. Nervous twitching, and I don’t give a fuck where I am, just enjoying the taste of Red-Bull and licorice. Around me tanned shirtless fags in baggy pants gyrate to house and progressive beats with a Madonna track or two thrown in for good measure.

There’s only one bathroom in the joint. I’m waiting in line to take a piss. All the stalls are occupied with dude’s fucking and sucking or giggling fag-hags snorting coke, and I really do have to pee bad. I’m dancing, but not to the music. An old Navajo standing next to me who’s wearing too much base and a suit of faded denim, matching jacket and jeans, keeps smiling at me. He smells like soap and flowers and his face is riddled with pot marks. He asks me if I’m here with anyone. I tell him “yeah, with some friends.” He asks me if I have a boyfriend so I ask him if he’s got any go. He says no so I say yes and that’s that and I turn away. I finally get sick of waiting. I go outside to pee. I stand alone in a dark corner, a long trail of steaming piss trickling out of my dick. My eyes roll back in my head, it feels so damn good. A group of Mexican queens walk by and strain their necks to stare at my junk. I flash one of them a toothy grin and they all snicker. " Aye Papi!" I stay outside puffing a Primetime sitting on the curb alone with my thoughts enjoying my high, the steady bass line shaping and molding my frenetic emotions.

I show the door guy my stamp and stride back in on wobbly legs. The nice thing about this place is the bartenders don’t cut you off. I order another Jaegerbomb, light up another cigarillo, and lean back on the bar by myself to people watch. A super-hot, little blonde fag-hag asks me for a match. I oblige and open my Las Vegas playing-card zippo with a clink and light her up like a film-noir tough-guy. Her arm’s tatted so I ask her about her work with glazed, dilated eyes. We awkwardly converse for a while with raised voices until I lose interest and saunter off without a goodbye looking for my gay friend, Nathen. He’s on the dance floor with some trailer-park fag bumping and grinding to 50 cent's "Candyshop." He has the glass vial of blow in his pocket and I’m fiending so I work my way out to the center of the floor twisting and writhing around sweaty bodies. I feel a hand grab my crotch. I jump back with a start but no one steps forward and I’m not about to make a scene. I finally reach Nathen and he hands off the blow with a sly handshake just like a mob boss tipping a valet.

I wait in the restroom line for another twenty minutes or so quietly listening to soft groans and the occasional lip smack. Once a stall opens up I aggressively claim it as mine and deftly kick the door shut and lock it with a sneakered toe. It’s fucking disgusting. The toilet has overflowed and my feet suction to the sticky, shit-smeared floor with every step I take like a midget in a David Lynch film. I spread the powder on the toilet paper dispenser, cut up two rails with my Visa check card, and roll up my crisp fiver and enjoy. I stand back for a sec counting ceiling tiles. “I say GOD-DAMN!” Head rush giddiness followed by a wave of cocky calm as the drip works it’s way down my throat - acrid fairy-dust drip, my favorite part. I think about it all the time even when I sleep, or work, or fuck, or dream.

I walk out of the bathroom and again I see the same old Navajo waiting in line. I wink at him as I walk past as though I’ve known him my whole life.