Living With Your Ghost

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres, Part 11

Buddy balanced Prairie Fires and Burning Houses on a big round tray. He weaved around tables and lurched past strangers. I followed carrying beer chasers for everyone.

Buddy turned around without a wobble to any of the shot glasses. “A boyfriend?” he asked.

“Watch out,” I said. “She said something about Walter. She might be joking.”

“Joking?”

“It won’t last long.”

Ghosty had something to say. She played Santa Monica by Everclear, a song that starts,

I’m still living with your ghost.

It’s a classic anthem song with accelerating tempto and building volume. Goose bumps rise between the second stanza and refrain:

I just want to feel some sunshine

I just want to find some place to be alone

We can live beside the ocean

Leave the fire behind…

Buddy served C first. “Who’s Walter?”

Duke laughed. “Your turn C.”

“Thanks,” C said.

“He’s Mr. Disco Pants,” Duke said.

“Mr. Dickless Pants?” I asked.

“His name is Walter,” Dee said.

I followed Buddy around the table handing out the chasers to wash down the Prairie Fires and Burning Houses. He moved gracefully while I stumbled in his wake. I spilled beer on Dee’s leg. She wiped it away without concern.

“I ran into C at Tiny Dancers,” Duke said. “She was there with Walter.”

Tiny Dancers is one of the local clubs, noiser than Yak’s. It’s more for dancing with strangers than hanging out with friends.

I sat next to Dee with my Pale Ale, a Prairie Fire and a Burning House arrayed in front of me. Dee whispered, “Are you trying to get me drunk.” She gave my knee a firm squeeze and left her hand on my thigh.

“Prairie Fires!” Buddy said. “Ready everyone. One. Two. Three!”

Bang! Five shot glasses slammed on the table.

“What the hell?!” Duke sputtered. Everybody sputtered. I gagged then coughed.

“It’s burns,” Buddy said overpronouncing ‘burns’. He talked as if he had taken a mild sip of ginger ale.

“Ehck.” said C and coughed. Everyone coughed.

“Prairie Fires,” Buddy said. “Tequila and drops of tabasco that sink to the bottom.”

“Are you hiding Walter?” I asked C. She hadn’t recovered her voice from the Prairie Fire.

“He likes,” Duke wheezed, “tights.”

“Tights?” Buddy asked.

“Disco pants. You know, bell bottoms and paisleys.”

Buddy tried to clear his throat with three short coughs like those caused by corn chips, not tabasco.

“When was this?” I asked.

“Tiny Dancer,” C struggled to say, “had an eighties hair-band party last night.” She coughed. “We dressed up a little.”

“What were you wearing?” Dee asked.

“Me? My disco veronicas and a big hair wig,” C said.

I asked, “Disco veronicas?”

“Tight pants. Shiny. Red.”

“I was a platinum blonde,” C said, running her hand through her auburn hair as if it flowed below her shoulders. “I didn’t have super model breasts though.”

“I can take care of that,” Buddy said. “I’ll get my sketch pad.”

C said, “You wish.”

Dee said, “They would need to be real fake breasts.”

“Fake boobs aren’t real,” I said.

“Your opinion doesn’t count,” Dee stated.

“You’ve seen what I can do with a pen,” Buddy said.

C said, “You love to draw Dee and me with big breasts.”

Buddy picked up his Burning House, motioned to everyone to do the same. He declared “Burning down the house!” and then hammered his empty shot glass on the table. Four more clipped shots banged as we followed Buddy.

“That was good,” Duke said.

… continued

——

Prairie Fires and Faerie Pyres

Part 11: Living With Your Ghost

Part 10: Kernel Panic

Part 9: Pais Lee

Part 8: Burning House

Part 7: Merkin’s Face

Part 6: Merkin’s Beard

Part 5: Conversation Of Biblical Proportion
Part 4: Hockey Fight
Part 3: Your Blog’s Not A Waste Of Time
Part 2: Put Your Head Somewhere Else
Part 1: Showier Prose