The Gospel According to Mike

"There are rules, man, there are fucking rules. And rule first and mother fore-fucking-most is this, and listen! You DO. Not HIT. On the bartender."

Sage advice, Mike, but fuck you. There are a hundred bars in this little redneck town, and every single one had Bud on the tap and Harleys on the pavement. There are rules, and there are regulations. They're written into the nicks in the countertops and into twisting barland stories. Mike saw himself a prophet, but tonight I wasn't worshipping.

There was a crazy quality about her. I know, calling someone crazy isn't ideal courtship strategy, but listen. Most people never dare to really see the world. Something in her smile and in the wrinkle of her nose could smell what's out there, and yet she smiles. She smiles at things that makes me drink. If that isn't special, what kind of crazy is?

Mike doesn't get it. "She's another blonde. Another inked-up mystery behind the counter. You want to give her something special? Tip two bucks a shot, and shut your fucking mouth. Magic!"

Fuck you, Mike, as if I'm not aware. There's a glass screen in this life, between the people living in a moment and the people selling it. You'll always be "that wacky/bitchy/quiet customer" to them, a character on the show they just have to watch. At least it pays, or else we might forget there's people under there at all. I wanted to be a man, and not a creeper, not a customer. Mike's gospels rang inside my ears like laughing high school hordes. They had me dead to rights, and I just wasn't being cool.

"Listen, man. I get it. I really, really get it. You think that seeing something means something. It doesn't. Nothing real ever happens within 50 feet of Jager. Trust me!" I wanted oh so much to disagree, but that Mike, he had me dead to rights.

And then she smiled at me. I swallowed half a sea of water and a wicked, sharp little chunk of ice. She laughed, and I smiled like a shameful boy might smile. She asked me if I wanted another, and I took it. I wanted more, had so many words to say. I washed them down, and that was that. She was in another customer sitcom show, and I was drunk and inarticulate.

Mike saw himself a prophet. A wiser man would listen sooner. Mike would never be more than he was, but at least he knew how to keep his dreams inside the spirits.

I never said a word. I tipped two bucks and shut my fucking mouth. The feeling passed, and Mike proved right again. The rules, they had me, dead and true.

The rules, they had me written.