I don’t need love right now

 

I come here because I don’t have to hear the old bullshit about how many trucks I didn’t finish in my eight hours of slave labor from a bus who drives a Mercedes home at five when I drive a ten year old rusted out Ford.

No one here asks if I am married as long as I can afford to keep buying drinks.

The Coke Girls are out of my price ranges so I get stuck with the alcoholic dogs.

I don’t mind.

Sometimes they can be good for a spin or two in the Ford’s back seat.

No one needs to know what I say when I get home.

I don’t repeat any of the crap I hear at home because I don’t want to get mad all over again, and beat my wife twice as hard and get myself locked up again.

So I keep it all locked up inside my head.

Five nights a week I’m as regular as the revenue man, here at five fifteen – five-thirty if traffic’s bad – and out of here by nine so I’m home by nine-thirty.

Sometimes the old lady pisses me off enough so that I come here on Saturday night, too. Then I don’t leave until closing.

Anyone that comes here on a Sunday is generally a loser. So – until lately – I’ve kept my distance.

I’ve always liked Friday nights best because we see a better mix of people, not just coke heads and boozers, but real college co-eds who giggle a lot when they go for a ride in my Ford’s backseat.

Until recently, I’ve made a point of never taking the same girl outside more than once, figuring once is enough and after that it becomes an attachment.

The last thing I need is some silly chick falling in love with me and breaking up my marriage.

My wife might be a bitch, but after all the time I’ve spent breaking her in, I don’t fancy having to start all over with another future bitch.

But tell that to the silly blonde at the end of the bar who suddenly gets it into her head that I’m her road to salvation, and demands to occupy my Ford’s back seat on an exclusive basis.

I try to tell her no to a second time, but it is like one of those dark and dismal nights with a rain that makes me ache all over especially inside my head, making me feel so down and lonely and horny, I would fuck a turtle so I take up with her instead.

Once I agreed to the second, I can’t say no to the third, and after that it’s all down hill, and I’m with her every time we happen to come into the bar at the same time, which turns out is every night.

It’s when she uses the “L” word that I tell her to stop.

When she won’t stop, I beat her – but outside where nobody can see.

I think maybe that solves the problem because I don’t see her for awhile. But then, she shows up and she’s even more in love with me than before.

Go figure.

And no matter how hard I beat her, she won’t stop.

Now changing bars is almost has hard as changing wives, but what else can I do?

So I go up to the corner bar, figuring she the shed the blonde bitch.

But she comes and gets me and drags me back, telling me that I have to ask my wife for a divorce.

This is the reason why I sneak my pistol out of my house and when I get to the bar, ask the blonde bitch out of the car for a ride – not in the back seat this time but the front, and not to the chapel of love, but to the Jersey swamp.

No one hears the shot.

I know no one will find the body.

So by the time I get back here, I’m feeling pretty high on myself.

After all, I come here because I don’t want to hear the bullshit, but when a barfly won’t take no for an answer, what else is there to do?

You tell me that?