I swear I saw Moist Rub on a flatbed trailer singing ABBA tunes for the crowd at the Chicago White Sox parade. Others report seeing him board a jet to Venezuela later that day, so I'm not sure when to expect his return.
I briefly celebrated the White Sox win on Bourbon Street, then got back to work at the sweatshop. It's been busy there, so I raided the archives for a series I wrote some years back called Call Me Kitty. It all started after a long evening out on the town, but instead of passing out upon getting home I continued mixing my own drinks through the dark of night and had scribbled this out by dawn. It also marks the beginning of my Charles Bukowski phase...
Call Me Kitty I
Dave rolled away form the daylight that had filtered through the closed blinds, and his eyes pulled into focus as he checked the time. It took him several seconds to determine that it wasn’t a work day, after which he pulled the covers over his head. His mouth tasted like the smell of stale beer in the alley behind a tavern, and it forced him into action. After pulling on a pair of shorts, he sleepily stumbled in the darkened direction of the kitchen. In the cabinet he discovered a clean pitcher, and filled it with a can of Minute Maid he grabbed from the freezer. Within minutes, he tried to wash his mouth with the taste of freshly unfrozen orange juice, but it only made him wince as his taste buds rejected the attempt. Hair of the dog he thought to justify pulling a Moosehead from the fridge. The cap quickly joined others scattered across the counters, and Dave took the beer with him to the bathroom. Knowing a steamy, hot shower always helped resurrect his body, he cranked up a hot one and stripped his shorts to the floor. After relieving himself, he stepped through the mildew ridden curtain and into his own fountain of youth. As the water flowed over his waiting body, he drank the first half of the beer that accompanied him this day. The sauna-like atmosphere of the shower made the beer taste like it was just pulled from an ice-filled cooler on the Fourth of July as he took one more swallow before setting it next to the bottle of unused conditioner left by a discarded woman. His mind wandered to the night before as the water soothed his body, and he remembered the girl from Berwyn, PA drinking a Rolling Rock, brewed in the glass lined tanks of Latrobe, PA. He thought of his own hometown brew, Old Style. In Chicago, everybody’s dad drank Old Style, and so would he. He would get a six pack of Old Style if he had time today.
Suddenly he realized that he would never take a sleigh ride with Sarah Jessica Parker and fall asleep next to her while making snow angels. It must have been the blast of cold air as he stepped out of the shower that triggered the change of season in his mind. It was that pessimistic thought that followed him to his closet as he chose his clothes for a new day.