Anachronism

Ahh, the booth seat.  Its intended design of service for 4 worked perfectly as La-Z boy recliners for 2, albeit, using the cruel hard wall, ledge, window arrangement for a backrest.  Anything was better than having your feet down after a grueling day in the humid summer Nebraska sun.  The boys also had the option of resting their backs on the back of their respective booths and stretching their feet across to the opposing seat, but that had 2 problems.  First of all, it seemed kind of gay (Even to a guy dressed like Don Johnson ca. 1984).  But the main thing is the table worked nicely as a comfy armrest on one side, while the top of the seatback provided top shelf comfort for the other, less dominant arm.  Both boys were somewhat ambidextrous, but Boomer was more left handed, so there was no question as to the seating arrangement.

 

On the table, at the window side, were about a half dozen empty Guinness bottles and 2 half full ones.  Cube held in his hand the tiny little 8 oz. glass he had received in answer to the bar-wench’s query “Y’all wanna glass with them?”

 

Boomer also had a tiny little glass, but he was more interested in peeling off the Guinness label completely intact.  It was proof the he was either a virgin or not a virgin.  Neither boy remembered exactly how the story went.

 

“So since you’ve got 3 of them off whole, does that mean you’ve raged thrice or that you’ve explained to 3 different girls how you’re saving it for marriage,”  Cube asked, shaking out a match and spitting a tiny bit of fine Turkish tobacco off his tongue.  He let that extraordinary blend of premium hand-picked carcinogen nestle briefly in his nice juvenile lungs before attempting a string of smoke rings.

“This Guinness is too cold.  Look, it says right here – serve at between 40-50 degrees Fahrenheit.  You know that changes the whole bouquet or some shit,” Boomer complained

“Yeah, well, that’s just a bunch of crap because those limey bastards over there haven’t figure out how to make a good refrigerator.”

“Uh, yeah.  This is Irish beer.  See, it says it’s from Dublin,” Boomer corrected.

“Yeah – the Irish are known for their refrigerator skills,” Cube countered, “I’m pretty sure that if there are any refrigerators in Ireland, they bought them from England, and they suck balls for cooling down beer.  That is the exact reason our forefathers came to the Midwest and started the Amana colonies.”

“You should become a history teacher, Crockett,” Boomer teased.  But Cube like being called Crockett.  Seriously.  It was pathetic. 

“Well aren’t we a couple of dandies,” a large, well muscled man with a hand on each side of the edge of Boomer and Cube’s table.  Behind him was another man with a certain kind of hatred in his eye.  These fellas weren’t really looking for trouble.  They were just having a little fun.  They just meant to scare boomer and cube, 2 obviously underage patrons of Louis’ bar and grill.

But they picked on the wrong 2 guys for that.  See, these boys couldn’t fight at all.  And they knew it.  Problem was, neither one of them really scared too easy.  After a few minutes, the big men completely changed their mind and decided to beat the living shit out of Boomer and Cube.

“Hey Dan,”  Cube started, “Why don’t you tell these pussies who the real Elvis is,” unable to contain his laughter, blowing smoke into the face of his soon to be murderer. 

“Oh yeah, I was telling my good pal Cube here …”

“Who you callin’ pussy, pussy?” inquired beefy violent guy number one, knuckles whitening,  slight crunching noise emanating from the compressing tabletop in his grip.

“Look, you don’t want to mess …” Cube started to say, but was quickly rebuffed with a thunderous,

“You have no idea who you’re fucking with!”  And he was right.  They didn’t.  He was going to kill them in just a couple of minutes.  He just had to get a little more motivation from either one of these little punks.

“That’s true.  We don’t know you.  But I gotta tell you,” Boomer jumped in, “I’ve ruled out ‘English teacher’.”

“Yeah, Up High my man,”  Cube held up his right arm for the always dependable, never leave you hangin, Boomer High Five.  Yeah it’s capitalized.

And with that, the man stood to reach in and pull Cube out of his comfy booth spot as the silent partner went for Boomer.  Just then, there was a light slap on each of their backs as some weird guy, dressed like an early 40’s hepcat, delayed indefinitely the demise of Boomer and Cube.  Unfortunately, now all of the malice was aimed squarely at the zoot suited shoulders of the mystery man.

“Janer!  How’s it hangin, my good man!”  Boomer shouted, recognizing his old pal and savior, extending a hand in greeting.

“Hold on a sec, boomey.  So fellas – how ‘bout I get you cats a nice cool drink.  The boys talk shit, but they don’t mean anything by it …”

“Yes we actually …” Cube started, he really was stupid.  And also, getting his lines walked on a lot tonight.

“Ok, cubey – we know you’re joking.  Waddya say fellas?  Have a cold one on me.  I insist.”

“I’ll tell you what I say you little freak, I say we go all Jack Kerouac on your goofy ass and teach you a lesson …”

“Um, so.  You’re going to get drunk and do a poetry reading or something,”  Oh yeah, J was a smart-ass too.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about, ‘Janey’,”  completely misunderstanding the nickname.

Janer was the nickname for 2 guys.  “J” and “R”.  Nobody knew their real names. Just their initials.  You never saw them coming either.  They always just appeared.  Always together.  You always saw J first.  He would slide up with such grace, you’d swear he taught Michael Jackson how to moonwalk.  He was tall and thin, but a real cool cat.

R was never far behind.  Just as the 2 troublemakers turned their full attention to J, the room darkened as the towering figure of R either blocked all the light or made the light run away with fear.  Science is supposed to get back to us on that one. All I’m saying is R was a big mother fucker.  Most people just called him “Big Bob.”  They just assumed (incorrectly) that ‘R’ stood for ‘Robert’.  Anyway, he was big enough that most confrontations ended peacefully.  On this occasion, Butch and Marv (the 2 troublemakers) ended up buying the first round.

After a couple hours, it was time to move on.  So Butch, Marv, Boomer, Cube and Janer decided to hit the Midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture show.  “You’ll love it,” Cube explained to Butch and Marv, “There’s plenty of gay sex in it.”

At that, Marv pretended to get offended and lightly slugged Cube in the shoulder.  But thanks to Corey Hart’s advice, Cube was wearing his Ray-Ban’s which hid the stinging tears of pain leaking from his eyes.  

“Ow,” complained Cube as he pretended he was pretending to be in a lot of pain.

“For a big guy, you have pretty small feet,” Butch observed and reported to Big Bob.