Saturn in Retrograde 2:9

Nine

“We’re getting the fuck out of here. C’mon”

Milt Seebaum stumbled from the men’s room. His head was a massive, pounding industrial press of pain, but at least he could circumnavigate through the tiny dotted crowd.

“Sabrina...are we leaving?”

“Yes. Get Patricia.”

“I think I’d rather you just left us here, if you don’t mind.”

She considered.

“No. No, you’re coming too. And you don’t dare say no to me, Milty. Believe me. Now.”

Seebaum managed, with much difficulty, to move back over to the side of the bar closest to the empty stage. Pat Ireland was sitting by her lonesome, oblivious to all and everything, apparently enjoying some vague recollection or thought that only held any relevance for her. “Pat. Sabrina says we have to leave. They tried to kill Tanner. I think I’m going to die from alcohol poisoning.” She looked up for a moment, uncomprehending. Then stated, as if she had just woken up from a long, dreamfull sleep, “What? Oh, we’re going?”

They made their way back across the bar, and altogether walked out the ancient, rickety door. A few huffs of appraisal and indignation were spat at them as the exited.

***

Gary knelt low, wiping the face of the sink and the dishwasher in utter, numbed exhaustion. He had eaten nothing

85the entire day. He hadn’t had time to take a break. They had just closed the grill. The thoroughly-tattooed lummox had taken his apron off, wiped sweat from his forehead, thrown his spatula down, and said, “Man, I am going to go home and smoke an entire eighth.” “I feel that shit.” “Hey, before we do this shit, you wanna smoke a joint with me Gar? You know we deserve it, my man.”

Gary’s head shot up and he half-turned and looked at him. Under normal circumstances it would not have happened. But tonight had been anything but normal. He said, “Sure.”

“Cool”. He drew the word out and did a little half-nod. He went downstairs to get his coat. They walked out the side door, Gary still wearing his apron, walked across the street past the upstairs tattoo parlor and hot dog stand, and in back of the campus coffee shop. It was catty corner to a popular bar with a fenced-in patio area. Someone whistled at them from behind the fence. There had to be eighty seven people crammed back there.

“Hey, I bet I have a bigger dick than your boyfriend.” There was a slight pause, and a female voice said, half-mockingly, “betcha don’t”.

“You wanna find out?” Keith turned back to Gary, spat, said, “stupid bitch.”

They got into Keith’s car. Keith produced one very skinny little joint. It was of the variety commonly referred to as a “pinner”.

“Its weak, dude. But it’ll do in a pinch. Man, it was fucking busy tonight.”

“Yeah. And lucky me fucking Tanner decides to take the fucking night off.”

Keith lit the joint, took a hit, and raspily intoned, “You want me to kill him?” He passed it. They both broke into laughter.

“No. I’m saving him for myself. When that little shit comes into get his last check, I’m gonna make him blow me for it.”

“Damn.”

More laughter. Another toke. Keith turned on some god awful heavy alternative rock. “I love these guys. I party with them. They’re called---” But he was cut short. A campus cop car came up the alley, creeping, looking for just such a situation as they had put themselves in.

“Oh shit.”

There was a very tense moment when they wondered, maddeningly, if the car was going to come to a slow halt in the middle of the alley, and the cop was going to emerge and ask them exactly what they were both doing sitting in a parked car smoking a very tiny, weak joint.

Saturn in Retrograde by Tom Baker