The snows got me in the Christmas spirit

Another Christmas

Stumbling, mumbling, and bumbling in the general direction of the door,
Light headed and rosie cheeked, sweat dripping down and obscuring my blurry view
through my scratched and dirty glasses.
Is it Sweat?
Could be blood.
Could be beer.
Did someone toss a drink in my face?
Tastes salty.
Would have been about thirty seconds ago, so it must be sweat.
Right foot, left foot, right foot... left foooooot, avoid the slight level change in the greasy plastic coated hard wood floor or else I'll end up on my face. Will take more than a few to carry me out tonight.
Why has that imperfection never been fixed?
So many before me before me have tripped and gone down in this very spot, not really their fault, mostly.
Not going to... trip!
God damn it!
Thank whatever that I'm blessed with such great balance, even when all sails to the wind.
Push the heavy, ugly modern glass door where a real wooden pub door with a brass elk headed handle and ancient glass once graced this yuppie pit of a block. Wide open, bouncing it bluntly off the wall.
Wow! Should fix that shit too, dummies!
The harsh, crisp reality of life slaps my face in the form of an icy cold northern wind. I hold back an earth shattering belch that could have contained chunks of whatever slop I had for lunch on my five minute break, and a fart that may be wet and rancid.
BoBo called those, "the gambler."
You gamble and let rip, you either win or you shit your pants.
Faint scents of wet asphalt and burning pine spin the wheel of my squeaky hamster cage.
A dozen or more mid thirty year old, well manicured white men, all in various, but not too varied, plaid long sleeved shirts that seem more expensive than they are worth, khakis, and cheap imitation Italian leather shoes glare at me as a smile creeps onto the toothless upper side of my lip. Their glances all dart every which way but mine.
Fucking clones!
Did I say that out loud?
Don't care.
How do these people live their lives? What do they do? What is going on in their inner monologue. I'm seriously curious.
I'd probably put a bullet in my head if I had to spend one minute inside their heads.
Do they have one original thought in their life time
Shouldn't waste the thoughts.
Overwhelming heartburn, that crimson liquid fire that can be traced every inch as it rises up the esophagus,  pushes it's way in to the fore front of my reality. I choke it back down. It's like swallowing kerosene with a few thumb tacks that have sat for hours in a camp fire. Only hard core drinkers can truly understand this sensation and the necessity to feel it. Public vomiting is not an option to an old pro. Got to stay mysterious and seemingly not completely obliterated or I may never be served at this hour again no matter how green my cash or pure my drugs.
The rush produced by this discomfort paired with the pint and a half of whiskey, and at least a dozen beers force a quick stop.
Someone is on the park bench.
Who is it?
Can't see. Don't care.
Plop down hard on the wet green steel, sending the bench and unknown occupant on an unwanted slide. The bench isn't bolted down to the chagrin of many an unsuspecting dog owner who returned to find their dog dragging said bench into audi's and porches in pursuit of canine companionship.
The thought brings a smile to my face and a chuckle to my lips which I smack with dry mouth.
Dirty looks, confused stares, and muttering under breathes dominate the now otherwise still air.
My arm is around one of their suburban yoga trophies.
She is very uncomfortable, so i apologize as i retract my meat hook.
She quickly gets up and scurries away.
"Merry Christmas!" I offer up.
No reply.
"What if she is Jewish?" baited a familiar pushy voice.
"Look at her Nate. If she's Jewish, than I'm Jon Bonnet Ramsay."
The familiar chuckle.
"Tuck and roll 76'er."
"Same to you, man!"
Fuck them all anyway.
This is my night, I can be belligerent. This is my block, my streets, I know every crack in the sidewalk and every secret behind every wall.
I won't remember them or their disapproving looks tomorrow any way. If any of them had a set, they would have said something.
They're all the same.
Not a word.
"Baaahhh!" I call loudly at the tentatively moving herd.
Fucking sheep.
They'll remember me though, no doubt, maybe they'll think twice about coming back to my pub lest they receive another free show. Thar's a hundred others just like me, waiting to entertain. All bent out of shape and snockered. All depressed and angry about what has become of their neighborhood, what has become of them. All ready to defend their turf at the drop of a hat.
Fuckers! come in here like they own the place, like this is their neighborhood now and the rest of us should just fuck off and or die. We built this place, quite literally, and we can tear it down twice as fast.
If any of them had turned around, or shouted back, I would have given them the side of my fist, My father would have done as much or worse. This is his neighborhood and his fathers, and his fathers fathers. I find strength and company from the dead in that thought. It will never belong to the soulless shills that now occupy this beautiful place, never truly belong to them. You can't buy and replace the culture of the place, you can re-gentrify but the soul still remains here. It always will. If you want this place to be more like the place you came from, you should run back there with the north wind and your tail between your legs.
I've been sitting a while now, not sure how long. My jaw aches, possibly from a punch received earlier, I can't recall who or why. My teeth feel loose and taste of puss and blood, mortality. My mouth tastes sweet with the fresh scent of decay and rot. Entropy.
My imperfect eye focuses back and forth from the grease of finger prints on the dingy bar window to the sidewalk as I shuffle off into the darkness bowling over unsuspecting night walkers that get in my path. Tonight I will fuck her hard and forget that it has been fifteen years. Ill forget his last breathes and then I'll forget tonight tomorrow. I still need to write Christmas cards. I wont forget this year.