In Vino Veritas

Alright, so I still have not decided on the format, or more specifically the content that we will deal with here at The Arch Groovus Report, so for the time being, I will just focus on writing and trying to figure out a way to get people to read it. And while I am on the subject, I am not sure why this is important to me. The fact that people read this I mean. I really think part of it has to do with a lack of a creative outlet. I have virtually no artistic ability at all, so the chances of me actually creating something are pretty slim ( that of course does not include you, Christofer!). This was actually a story I wrote a year or so ago. The characters are rather characatures of people whom i have "experienced" over a dozen of so years of enjoying friends and good times, in what a recent Jack Daniels ad refers to as " fine establishments and questionable joints everywhere..". Somewhere, I am sure there is a story inside my head detailing the events that led up the this rather surly, disjointed catharsys in Patton's life, but so far this story stands alone as an example of human emotional frailty and the harsh face of the hopeless day to day that some people feel they are forced to endure. So here it is In Vino Veritas.


..."Im sorry babe, was that black or red?"
"BL-ACK"
Patton over-enunciated, annoyed at having to repeat himself in the first place. He crushed the cigarette down into the heavy glass ashtray as he eyed the woman over. Not unattractiveHe passed judgment on his bartender as she poured him a glass of Johnnie, smiling politely as she caught him looking her over "Not bad lookin" he mused to himself, "but probably worked in bars a little long, lookin a little weathered." He smiled at his observation, timing the change in expression so that she no doubt thought he was smiling back at her. Patton was shaken out of his amusement, suffering an inadvertent elbow, as the fat, sweating-mouth-breather of a stockbroker reclaimed the stool next to him returning from wherever fat, sweating mouth-breathers return from when they arent swilling down cheap chilled vodka, believing that they are getting a great martini. Patton tried to ignore the man as he shifted n his seat turning his attention back forward to realize his bartender had settled into a leaning spot on the bar directly in front of him.
"So whats your name sweetie?"
Patton thought for a moment about not answering her question. He already knew how this conversation played out, and he just didnt feel like enacting this scene.
"Patton actually." He responded, choosing not to be overtly rude. Here we go He added in his head. Wait for it, wait for it.
"Oh, like the war guy?"
There it is, good girl!
"No, like the flavored coffees"
"The what?" she replied as Pattons sarcasm shot wide and drifted harmlessly over her head.
"Yes," he paused to look at her nametag "Debra, like the war guy."
Patton said dryly as he returned to his drink. His sip at the scotch became a swallow, and before he knew it he decided to just finish the job, tilting his head back swallowing again before slamming the glass back down on the bar, gasping. Two down. "Debra," Patton said, as he slapped Fat-Guy on the shoulder, "another round for me and my new friend!"
"Really?"
Fat-Guy spat suddenly smiling and excited at the prospect of free booze. Patton turned and half smiled realizing the man just didnt get it, and probably never would.
"Uh, no not really"
Patton turned back to Debra,
"another scotch please."
Patton started in on round three as he casually flipped through an appetizer menu filled with various fried vegetables, cheese doused morsels, and high fat, low carb solutions that kept the patrons satisfied, content, fat, and stupid. Patton could tell that Fat-Guy was not real happy as he shifted in his seat, doing the uncomfortable dance of a coward nearing conflict. Patton continued to sip on his scotch closing his eyes and looking down occasionally, trying to drown out the incessant rambling going on around him. When he opened his eyes again he noticed for the first time two women a couple of stools down on his left. The first thing that struck him about these ladies was the volume at which they saw fit to have their conversation at. It was not that act of trying to raise your voice over the pitch of the room, as these women were several decibels louder than the rest of the insipid surface noise so typical of a chain restaurant and bar. It was that kind of shrieking, piercing loudness that was typical of one who saw themselves above the crowd, of one who so desperately wanted everyone to hear what they were saying, so everyone in the room could rest assured that these Cosmo slurping pop-culture whores were in fact having a great time, possessed of such a feeling of self importance, that the simple act of laughing harder or talking louder would make the entire room feel better about their pathetic existences. Late thirties, dressed like early twenties and gossiping like they were in there mid-teens. Patton groaned suddenly unable to drown out what was the singular thing that became the most important to ignore.
"Debra, please."
Patton called to the bartender shaking the ice in an otherwise empty glass. Debra dutifully poured the scotch and walked it over to him.
"Hey, I dont suppose you could get them to shut up or something." Patton continued, motioning with his head over to the talkative duo a couple of stools down... Debra just smiled and walked away. Patton, for his part, simply went back to the business of ignoring the women as they went on and on about everything from their shoes to the girl in the finance depart ment at work with the bad hair and what guy did what to them and how. Having decided after another swallow of scotch, that something needed to be done about these beasts, Patton cleared his throat and turned to plead his case to them. It was at this moment that he heard the voice from behind him.
"You know, youre not very nice."
A smile crept across Pattons face as he turned to face Fat-Guy.
"What?"
" I said, you are not very..."
" No, No. I..." Gulping down more of the drink: "... I heard what you said. Patton laughed as he turned back to his drink.
"Well, what is so funny about that?"
The words had barely gotten out of Fat-Guys mouth and Patton was all over it. "Nothing is funny. Nothing is..." Patton, now absolutely incredulous, continued. "You have been sitting there steaming for ten minutes Socrates? And the best you could come up with is youre not very nice? Christ, did ten minutes of internal dialogue get so miserably tripped up by your tongue or are you just that much of an idiot?"
Fat-Guy was now wide eyed and sweating even more as he meekly fired back.
"You know what, Im gonna..."
"You are not going to do anything, thats the whole point. You are going to sit there and do nothing, and 99 times out of 100 you are not even going to do as much as youve done already. Most times youre going to keep your mouth shut and drink more and sweat more and eat fried cheese dipped in ranch dressing, and then the whole way home, you are going to fantasize about the things that you wish you had the balls to say and do. You are going to sit on that stool thats barely able to support your sizable load, the same way you do, what three, four times a week? You are going to get drunk-ER and fat-ER and go home by yourself with no woman and no phone number and no dignity and no self-respect, because you have absolute..."
" Hey take it easy!" Debra jumped in trying to cut off Pattons colossal rant. "Debra, it is not your turn, genius! ...Absolutely no balls. You see these girls over here?"
Patton motioned over to the pair of overdressed woman to his left. Getting off his stool, Patton raised his voice several notches and continued. "These two works of art came here with a singular goal: get tanked and find someone, anyone to share a meaningless sexual experience with, praying that somehow they can temporarily drown the pain from their complete inability to develop a meaningful relationship, let alone a complete sentence."
Patton had now drawn the attention of not only the objects of his latest attack, but nearly everyone within twenty or so feet.

"The only thing lower than their IQ is the level of self esteem that the two of them share. And still, and still there is no way you would ever take them or anyone else like them home because you are absolutely pathetic. Patton continued to loose his venom on the hapless Thursday night patrons of Stuckeys on Ardmore Avenue. Although his voice was as loud as it was going to get, being at that point just between talking loud and yelling, his voice became clearer as the room became deathly silent. The entire room suddenly enraptured by the exciting and rarely seen theatre of a man completely unraveling before their very eyes. Patton was now utterly unglued, and did not even notice the fact that he was actually winning over his audience. As he attacked the garb, attitude, intention, lineage, social background, education, sexual orientation, drink selection, promiscuity, hygiene, and, of all things, mental stability, of patron after patron the entire room began to watch with a sick enthusiasm, some almost seeming to wait for their turn. Patton, for his part was livid, the more laughs he got from his audience, the more intense he became. Cursing now and spitting the anger of a dozen meaningless jobs that invariably led to nowhere, of half a dozen relationships that never panned out or led anywhere, having his heart torn out or walking in on God knows what. A thousand great ideas that never amounted to anything more than a fleeting moment of unrealized semi-genius or forgotten rumination, spilling out onto the faux wooden floor that had no doubt seen many a moment of unrealized whatever. A lifetime of unfulfilled promise, of broken lies and circular pathways inevitably leading to the spot a few feet back from where it started. Frustration, abuse, hangover, heartache, broke-and-lonely angst.
AND THEY LAUGH.
"SHUTUPIHATEYOU"
Pattons drink fell to the floor as he spit out the final lines of the final act of his one man show. The drunken, broken-hearted, dying man stumbled out the door crying as his audience followed him with their collective gaze hoping for more of his wisdom in a world lacking any sort of meaning or enlightenment. And as the door closed on the life of Patton Mitchell Hampton Jr. the room full of his most adoring fans slowly faded back into its average gray and his people drank cocktails and ate fried things.