Favored Customer

It's a status, a place you arrive, where the owners buy you sips of very good Irish whisky. The whisky lubricates, and I talk freely. Almost stand-up but I'm sitting on a bar stool. A cluster of listeners. The beautiful Astra, off work, came and sat next to me. I tried to remember to breathe. We talked about drawing. I'm going to get her to do a drawing for me. She said she worked best from photographs. An art jones is hard to shake. Talked with her about taking kids through the art show, about the Modernism show fixing to be set. She was excited about coming over, and so was John the barkeep. Need to open this up, need Astra and John on our side. Nick brought an Art History class over, to look at the glass, and I talked them through it, but they were zombies, I swear. I'm not sure they were awake. And then I did a fourth grade class, because I'm the go-to guy in these situations. Know more about that glass than anyone; quiz me, when I'm mopping the Ladies Room, in the dark, with my fantail loop making a swishing sound, when the moisture in my mop met the baseboard. Puzzling out meaning. I don't make sense, though it is my primary focus. I told John (the bartender) to pour us a couple of Paddys we'd see who was paying later. There are some internal problems. When I tip these paintings over, so they rest against my thigh. I'm pretty much convinced I saw this coming. .What you would imagine I'd thought I'd seen.

Tom

Favored Customer mode. Buy you a shot? I'm on top of my game. Walk down and fuck them all.. The scant notation means nothing. What you thought you meant. I know what you really meant.