Our hero Dave seemed to have created a bit of a stir when Call Me Kitty made its recent debut. Although not mentioned by name, Dave ventures outside the steamy confines of his shower in the second installment.
Call Me Kitty II
They danced on Greenville Avenue at a street party for two to the sounds that filtered through the metal garage doors of the bar they had just left; the only guest, a homeless bard in a battered coat, hoping to trade his streetwise Homeric ramblings for a donation to a bottle that would help warm him.
“Brrrr, cold!” his lips rumbled angrily and knowingly to kick start the beat of each verse, continuing to the beat of their feet as they trekked up the street. Their eloquent escort continued to the newly opened doors of the Whisky Bar. The brass rails and marble bartops would soon again separate the party, and they paid homage to their poet laureate for the evening with a couple of crumpled dollar bills from their front pockets to help support his habit. The balance of the money went inside with them to support theirs.
Most of the crowd dressed in black, taking their role in the bar far too seriously. The couple immediately looked for a way to lampoon the atmosphere that was so ripe for it. They found the best way was to join in on the local rituals, and, although they wore faded jeans and obviously did not understand the concept of moderation, they too chose and sipped heartily from the stock of single barrel bourbons as well as those in the blackest wardrobes. And then some. The small crowd was relaxed, yet somber, and clearly didn’t understand the amusement of their visitors. Melancholy bastards.
Once they found the bottom of their glasses again, they chased the lingering drops of the aged bourbon with a side of fresh ice water, glanced knowingly to each other and flitted to the door. As they pushed the door open, the burst of winter air was a welcome gust after the stuffy atmosphere they had just left. His thoughts turned to Sarah Jessica Parker, while she searched for their bard. Unable to spot either in the immediate vicinity, they continued on with only each other.
The traffic on the streets and sidewalks indicated that despite their early start, the rest of the city had caught up with them this evening. The only lead they maintained was in the amount of alcohol that coursed through their veins. So why quit now...
They set the requirements for the next stop - dark, smoky, with two seats near to their local barkeep. Candidates came to mind, but the winner was decided by a matter of geography as they crossed the street to the Icehouse. After slicing through the smoke that hung inside the door, they bellied up to the bar as the bartender tossed two coasters atop the worn bartop in front of them. To keep with the frenetic pace of the night, he asked for their order without a word, but by merely raising his eyebrows in their direction. So as not to disrupt the flow they offered a rote request for two beers which he produced nearly before they finished the order. As he waited for payment, the excess water from the iced down bottles that dripped from his hands was wiped through his greasy hair, down through his ponytail, and finished off with a wipe of the crumpled rag that was laced through his belt.
Before paying, they looked to one another again and knew they had to add a shot of Turkey to the order. With that they toasted, while the words of Jean Stafford hung in the air...
“To her own heart, which was shaped exactly like a valentine, there came a winglike palpitation, a delicate exigency, and all the fragrance of all the flowery springtime love affairs that ever were seemed waiting for them in the whiskey bottle.”