OF PISCO AND PERU:

Ingredients:

2 ounces Pisco

1/2 ounces Algarrobina syrup

1 ounce Evaporated milk

1/2 ounces Simple syrup

1/2 ounces Egg white

Ice

Ground cinnamon for garnish

Preparation:

To make the simple syrup, mix 1/2 cup sugar with 3 tablespoons of water. Bring to a slow boil, and simmer until the sugar dissolves completely. Set aside to cool.

Mix all the ingredients in a blender, adding enough ice to double of volume of the mixture. Blend for 2 minutes. Serve and decorate with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

“Peru!”

“What?” Startled, I adjust my glasses and stare into Gus’ face as he blinks at the orgy of rainbow-colored video poker lights. His Argentinian beret covers long, greying hair hiding bloodshot eyes.

“¡JesuCristo!” Ol’ Gooseman sparks yet another cigarillo. His tongue clicks between the gaps in his teeth. “Portland Town just no is for you, Duck. . . You gotta get the fluck outta here.”

“Here you go, Dougie.” Redhead Gayle hands me a note and sing-songs, “She speaks English.”

All I can manage is a lame, “Cool!” while holding up my empty beer glass. “How about another one?”

“No, thanks.” Gayle shakes her pigtails and strides past me, giggling with a tray full of beers in tow for the weed smokers playing pool in the back of the bar.

Crossing himself three times, Gus whacks a button, betting another line. Sharp blasts of technicolors and funride sounds erupt before. . . another dollar down the electric money drain.

With a theatrical drum roll and button slap, he curses in Spanish and taps out his game. After adjusting his plaid flannel jacket, he bounces up, steadying his drink. “Qua-Qua-Qua-Qua.”

The strains of Bananarama’s ‘You’re My Obsession’ wind down while we glide through the menthol-flavored haze of bleary faces before nestling into our well-worn ‘writer’s booth’.

Gus raises his glass for a grandiose toast. “Here’s to quitting your job at the extract plant. ¡Viva Peru!”

Is he drunk already? The bar just opened. I chime in just as the music shifts to Toto’s ‘Africa’. “Why Central America?”

“Aye.” A pained expression. “It’s South America, Duck. For a geek you sure make no sense of geography. Dios Mío.”

“Points taken. Anyways, what about Peru?”

“Ah. It’s fabuloso. My brother has a friend whose buddy knows a lady whose auntie in-law, after Peru’s last ex-presidentes got sent to prison. . .”

“Prison?”

“Yeah. Is like a tradition down there.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Claro. Anyways this auntie, she’s in her forties, about your age. She could show you around: Iquitos — ”

“Is that her first or last name?” I squint and cock my head to an angle.

“Ee-kee-tos. Is the biggest city in the world you can’t drive to. A half a millions peoples living in the lush, green Amazon. You must go. The Nazca Lines. Machu Picchu.”

He’s crazy. “Heard of the last one. I dunno, Gus. I’ve never even been South of the border before. At least not sober.”

“I know. Is just your scene. Machu Picchu’s very spiritual. Up there is the pure air. You will loves it. Besides, you always wanted to practice your Spanish.”

Gus squelches his lips into a staccato whistle. “A month or two and you is speaking more betters than me.”

How long have I been going to this bar, listening to this? “Sounds nice. Might be a year before I can carve out enough vacation time. Maybe a four-day look-see?”

Gus leans over and forces a solemn look. “Duck, is time you quit letting others thinks for you and grab your lifes by its brass cojones.”

“You mean like you?” My tone’s incredulous. But then again, at least Gus seems happy. A life lived in accord with its freest spirits.

“Exactamente.” Gus crudely smears the cigarillo into the ashtray, then gazes up at me. “I knows just what you need.”

Here it comes.

As Gus’ voice drones on about his theories on worldwide transcendental meditation and how ancient aliens transcribed dolphin language into Aramaic, I sip my beer, mulling over the two decades I’ve misspent at my dead-end job. And now I’m taking spiritual advice from the town drunk. Perhaps I’m doomed?

I take stock of the watering hole’s fauna, imagining the rest of my grim life locked into perpetual unenjoyment. Yava, the three-hundred-thirty pound Fijian bouncer, sits on an absurdly tiny chair near the entrance while gazing at his cell phone as he wolfs down forkfuls of mashed potatoes and salisbury steak through his lion’s mane of a beard.

Over at the bar, Tim sits stiff as an ironing board, his bloodshot and bloated face transfixed on the football game on TV as he pours another boilermaker down his gullet. His rosy-cheeked brother of the bottle, Jon, thin as a scarecrow, cranes his head around, unable to focus his blurry thoughts.

They’re all beaten down, resigned to waiting life out in this bar together until their livers slough off.

And then I see it. A fresh scrawl above the booth in magic marker:

‘TOYNBEE IDEA

IN MOViE `2001

RESURRECT DEAD

ON PLANET JUPiTER

REMEMBER YOUR CREATOR,

IN THE DAYS OF YOUR YOUTH’

Strange? Was that there last night? Is that my handwriting?

Leaning back on the worn red cushions, Gus rips open a new cigarillo pack, theatrically tamps it down, then lights a brand new, juicy cancer stick. “You always fancies yourself a writer.”

A meek laugh dribbles from my lips. “Yeah?”

Gus bends over the table, pointing at me with his Swisher Sweet. “Together, you and me are gonna writes the best traveled book of all times.”

He pauses, crosses himself, then looks up lovingly at the grimy ceiling fan. “Well, since the Bibles of course.” Gus slams his fist, then raises his empty glass and whistles to Gayle behind the bar. “Hola, señorita. Dos cervezas, por favor.”

She continues stacking steaming glasses just plucked from the dishwasher under the liqueur rack.

He smirks and sprays a giant raspberry. “Pffffththththahh! Aye, she ignores to me again.”

“Imagine that.” Turning in my seat with a rapid hand wave. “Excuse me, Gayle? Could I get two more beers, please?”

She whips her head around at me, then nods quietly.

Gus shakes his head. “Why is she always likes that?”

Now I know he’s messing with me. “Because you’re drunk.”

“With the passion.” He coughs and spits out a loud belch, bathing the stained table in frothy spittle. “Just be my eyeballs on the ground. I will fill in the blanks of your mind. Like I is your professor.”

“So, I’m your peon pupil?” I shake my head and sigh. “Marvelous. Finally, my life’s dream fulfilled. And where will you be?”

“Pffffththththahh! I will be here finding my muse. But don’t you worry, Duck, I’ll be down there in spirit.”

Gus grins like a de-fanged wolf, then peeks past me.

Gayle stares balefully at me, cocking her head stiffly to the side. A nasally, scathing, “This game again, little Dougie?” She plies me with another drink, then shakes her head and clucks a ‘tsk tsk’ without looking.

Gus belly laughs. “And gets him some fish tacos.”

She snorts, then straightens, deadpan. More chortling. What’s so funny? I try a weak “Hi.” but Gayle’s already marching away with that sharp cadence of hers. A shapely martinet in red Converse.

Gus snaps his fingers. “You know I can master that savage language of yours. Is like I’m flucking William Shakespeare.”

I pull a sip of beer. “This is insane.”

After thumbing his glass while he gazes at his reflection, Gus looks me over, his mouth forming that familiar grin. The face of an elderly child seeking attention.

Okay. I’ll budge. “What is it, Mister Wizard?”

“Nada. Forget about Gayle, Lonesome Duck. She’s not into guys like you.”

“Like me?”

“Sí. You know, guys that look like Bill Gates with leprosy.”

I shudder. A harsh truth. “Thanks.”

He laughs. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken.” There’s nothing for me here.

“You got a pasaporte?”

“Somewhere.” Everyone at the bar’s turning on me. Including my one, true friend. For his pleasure.

Gus nods and raises his glass for a toast.

I instinctively raise mine. I’m tired of being their plaything. “Huh?”

Clink. Clink.

“I pick you up Monday.”

“Monday? What’s this Monday?”

#

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