Santa Hats and Gin
Michael Bowen is the devil. There is no other way of putting it. After a polite evening of live jazz, philosophizing with friendly fellows, and celebrating Sarah’s birthday in style, I was horns waggled into extending the evening.
It was 10:30 and I was on the train to go home. I couldn’t believe that I was actually going home at a reasonable hour, yet still managed to have a good time. I was proud of myself. I was content and relaxed. I could sleep a full night. I might even wake up before the alarm, completely rested and ready for my day. It was just too perfect.
Mister Michael found this the perfect opportunity to pay me back for all those nights where I talked him into staying out, knowing full well he had to be up at the ass-crack of dawn. He started throwing out baited words like “Lucky Horseshoe” and “Acts of depravity not witnessed since the Lord, our God, washed away the sins of man with a mighty flood.” These buzz words peeled away my resolve like a Vidalia Onion over a Fry Daddy. I agreed to one drink at the Granville Anvil.
One drink at the Granville Anvil is equivalent to being launched from a circus cannon into Oktoberfest, but not before hitting California Wine Country and the backwood stills of Baker County, Florida. One drink at the Granville Anvil is also equivalent to attending a Mississippi PTA meeting hosted in a pitch tent behind the local nut house. Let’s look at our cast of characters..
Jimmy and Alecia - A youthful gay and his fag hag. He doesn’t like New York, Toronto, Los Angeles, England, Ireland, and any state that seceded from the Union. He only watches documentaries and movies based on historical events, and will not be seeing Dreamgirls when it comes out. He got into a bizarre debate over the reputation of Detroit with..
Beau-We’ve met this jerk before. The first time I came to the Anvil and met the man in the board shorts and old George in his fishing vest, Beau was regaling us with his vast intellect and electric demeanor. Before the end of the night Jimmy and Beau would be grinding near the jukebox to the delight of none.
Androgynous Dudley Moore in the glittery Santa Hat- Why, oh why did I not strike up a conversation with him? her? him?
Most Likely to be the Serial Killer in the Bar- When you walk into the Anvil, it’s a given that someone in the bar is a serial killer. Last night it was this guy. I made eye contact once and he looked like he was about leap across the bar and peel me like a Vidalia Onion over a Fry Daddy. He spent most of the night muttering to himself.
Lane - Lane pissed me off early in the conversation and I spent the rest of the night needling him over it. He has a history with Beau, but we never got the full story. The story we did get was disgusting and terrible there was a lot of licking. Lane is wiccan and needs a better shrink. After bringing him to a near rage where he proclaimed that none of us would ever see each other again, I made him hold my hand and we had a quiet moment of reflection. Of course Michael giggled through most of it, but that didn’t stop Lane from buying us another round.
In the middle of convincing Alecia that she was in a toxic friendship with youthful gay Jimmy, Michael started laughing and pointed at the clock. It was 1:30. Sonofabitch! Alecia said something about her pedophilic stepfather and we bid our adieu.
My Christmas wish this year is to not become a regular at this bar. It’s delights know no bounds, but much like a spider’s web, the sticky floors and sweet sweet nectar lure in the worst, most colorful bar flies of Chicago.
