The Smell of Whiskey

Que Pasa

Fumbling for his cha atched a moment and asked him thus: "Squire, should thou be thus?"

I squirmed at the uncomfortableness of it all...finally nge, I sn erupting, "Goddamni w could you?"

He sunk back down and I attempted repargese...it is a kind of French word that means one mu t! Ho st retreat into a shell, or coc ng. I balked and he said, "I could because I must."

He thrust himself forwa oon-type thi rd and declared a Bonapart part, witho sh, ut all the fla "Why would I not be thus."

It was not a question, I am not a wALRus.

Eventually, the skies cleared and it became clear what a mother-of-a-two-timing-liver-of-fantasies-lover-of-liver he was. How does one combat fatigue...you know, that one associated with labouring under a heavy weight, or lumbering alon be g the path and discovering that love wasn't what it was all tarted up to be? I could have chosen an entity of some sort, oh like nights in the pub with the lads, swirling and swishing long lost dreams in our pint glasses of rose-coloured ale but, I thought I ought not and got a job selling ladies 'pleasurables'. My friend here, on the other hand wore a ring and trumpeted it with flash and bravado (not uncommon for his particular generation). I shifted over to let a young lady sit, poofing and panting from the extra person she was carrying. She glanced a thank you smile and I cranked out some tune from the 40's that sounded remarkably like, 'June I am Your Man' by Thomas Squelchbinder of Kenmore, "Smelcome."

Soon on the fourth day, not long after the variances had fled at the first rumblings of Conga's war dance, a light rain began to fall. It was no matter to us, we three of the Brigada 1974. For equally, light and frilly artwork hung here, dangled upon a string over there, flitted amongst the tired and downtrodden in the next room, whilst meandering and letting off playful cooing somewhere on the floo be r above. So it could be said, a light fall of the same again was no more than what was had last Thursday but, this was Friday and that meant it was party time! Yeehaw! I stood to sashay, he shifted uncomfortably at first, a forbidding loom of calamity in his thoughts and threatening to charge forth, ramshackle chains and all but, upon request, returned to a slightly wobbly stance, unsure of his haunches, kicking out a jig ensemble akin to stove pipes and our lady friend merely gave a gesture of 'whatever, dude!' with that classic wave-sort-of-thing done by using your hand with nonchalance parlance sans vocal accompaniment. My facial expression must have suddenly paused at befuddlement station, as the corresponding body language went all limp with perplexity trimmings. I cast my gaze reflecting all these recent changes towards her. She was facing away, holding her swelled midriff and kept glancing upward wondering when the skies would clear again. First, I looked up to see if there were some kind of gigantic sunroof in the ceiling and then slowly turned to look at my friend; who stood slightly to the East of her weather-seeking probes. He had a somewhat similar look to mine, with just a dash of flabbergast and a slight hint of incredulity added for flavour. We both turned to take one last look at her - the same, "hmm, I long for snow...oh, the fall of snow...".

"Hmpft! Then we..." he says.

"Shall take our business elsewhere!" I say.

The Giacomo Sands are located approximately five kilometers to the west of Tullahassa in Central Wysmissberg county. If one were leaving the Gate's Arms pub, lets say, or perhaps the enclosed shopping plaza located across the road, even the open air art gallery on the corner and hightailed it in your convertible coupe of some vintage, cigarette burns adorning the interior seating and the pennant of your favorite football team dangling from the rearview and flapping like heck in all that wind, it might take about ten minutes or so down the I348, provided there were no necessary stops for the twice-daily, to-and-fro pas be sing of the Southern Grand Trunk (Austin/Dallas), or nipping into your girlfriend's joint for candy and dalliance, maybe even partaking in a quick hand of Parcheesi with a couple of the boys down at the garage, while Shawn is kind enough to have a quick check under the hood. Over the years, and under the stairs, beside the fire-hydrant, the little doggie did pee. On occasion, 'the sands' has featured a spot of trouble, as the evening's entertainment: the Bobby Bernhall murder in 1957; a legendary outback party back in the late 80's that colloquially became known as the 'Sandstorm', of which it had been unequivocally claimed that Jerry Garcia had attended and was forcefully attested to for many years after until finally, it revealed and confirmed that it was actually some guy named Hester from Vermont, who had been visiting his grandmother in town that weekend; and, of course, 'Hassa's 15 minutes of fame in 2004 when, a protest by local residents opposed to the building of a MCF Raw Sludge treatment plant on the Giacomo Filippone Estate (including sandpits) received national news coverage, due to the rather 'unusual' nature of the protesters, as state-wide television stations converged on the site to 'cover' the breaking news..."Yes Jim, okay ready...("three...two...one...go!") Hello, Belinda Crowmartin here, live at the Tullahassa protest site and believe me, this is quite the sight! Jim, what I'm told is every single resident of the town now has staked a spot somewhere on the dunes of this sandpit and, umm, we will pan the television camera in that general direction but, be forewarned, we are using pixelated technology and, well, it has it's glitches. As you see though, they are all naked and have smudged, splattered, or dunked themselves into cow manure! Uh Jim, you will be glad we do not broadcast with smell-o-vision! Man, it reeks here..."

By way of transcendence, a common less-than-by-nature occurrence took place but a few keel-o-meeters away from all this fuddle-duddle of hyper-cataclysmic activity. She swore, she wouldn't but, she did and swore, "Fuck you Jackson!" Down came the shorts and soon to be followed panties and all hell broke loose. Not wanting to temper the timbre, he splayed himself splat out on the grass and she blew a sigh this high (measure the Empire State Building by its significant other and multiply it by all the romance in the world). "Calm my beating and panic-stricken heart! Do you actually expect..." Her words trailed off into the youthful naiveté that struck ponderous chords upon her heart strings...first a b# sixth, followed by the unconventional 7th minor...ha! Take that!

And, take that they did...not with a murmur of so shy a glance their way but, a flattering, resplendent chorus of "Oh Say Him, Thy God!". Settle this with case in point right now: the echoes could resound upon the fortuitous circumstances of one's love-loss heart, right? And, nearer still, a calling of evermore, made with a sincere intention and stoked by a naked enthusiasm of youth - the Wonder Years - might lessen a burden so adversely taken upon, correct? So, how come Mom, there ain't but one kitchen in the cupboard with nary a sausage roll between them? Nor, a developed sense of nowhere that surely, given the length and breadth of this defined love, would shatter, splat to itty-bitty smithereenies, the very nature of a forbidding destiny...this must be so, no?

"No," she answered wit be h a deep, sorrowful tone. It was the type of sanguine flavour that tinged a reply so as all who heard it would genuflect and mumble something about their past immoral transgressions and follies.

He gathered his belongings, including the pipe and scurried away into the dark...the rustling of bushes and leaves faded quickly. The moon was quarter drunk and hung a slap-happy glow upon the surrounding treetops. Somewhere, in the distance, she thought she heard the sound of a motorbike starting up...

He spotted the exact spot and proceeded to salivate. Man! How could it be so untouched (like her, by the way)?The temptation was to go over and plunk himself down, cross-legged like a buddha or swami and persuade the immediate surroundings to fork up the mystic, the ether. Hesitation brought a different perspective and she waffled little next to none. Picking up the rucksack, she scurried off for a fate with destiny, a date with plunk. He went stone cold. And, do you know why stone cold is stone cold? Pardon partner but, ain't it a tad obvious? So many questions, like this one and the ones before, how come? Who by? Where does it end? Can I buy soap in that aisle? Numbers, are they inflated? Numbers, are they too droll? Is it ice cream or is it flavour? Touche! Is it French? Too many, is it so over the top that it actually finds itself underneath? Like dead leaves? Cracker Jacks? Mom, on a bad day, of course, like Thursday, or maybe south of the Mason-Georgia, with all its flair and posthumous namedropping? I opted for tea, none the type that brought on the jitters, mind. No, fancy stuff, like fit for a queen, or her vanguard of associated riffraff. Care for a smoke?