What the hell is he talking about? Actually, I kinda know, so let me ask a different question - why the hell doesn’t he shut up? We’ve been in the bar for an hour and the only time I haven’t heard him talk is the time he ran upstairs to the can. So, of course, he missed the classic line of the evening. I was watching these two girls play pool. They were attractive, but tough looking - leather jackets and cowboy boots. I got the feeling that maybe they’d met a few too many vodka tonics in their oh-so-young lives. One of ‘em - the elder of the two, I was guessing - had this tattoo of a Smurf on her arm. I said hey, nice tattoo. She was leaning over the table, lining up her shot, and as she followed through with her cue said got one on my ass too, wanna see it?

So anyway, Marty was up in the can when it happened and doesn’t believe that she said that and he wants to go talk to her. I try to explain that she was joking with me - and was probably thinly veiling her disdain for me - but he doesn’t seem to understand. He makes no move to leave our position, though, and keeps talking. We’re standing between the pool tables and the stairs, beers in our hands, keeping an eye out for when the band will start playing. Then we’ll move closer to the stage.

A list of topics he’s covered in the last ten minutes: How the University of North Dakota hockey team has the fastest forwards in the country; the exact date his favorite watering hole raised the price of a tap by 25 cents; how he avoids going to movies that are longer than two hours; why he’s not going to date anyone until after Valentine’s Day ‘cause that holiday always screws things up with whatever girl he’s seeing. I think at some point he mentioned a lunar eclipse and Chuck Taylor shoes in there, too.

I lost attention. Always do when she walks by. It was the moment of the evening. (Well, not quite - that was when the band hit the opening chords of their first song, "Barstool Blues.") So this will have to be the number two moment of the evening. Whatever.

We’re standing there watching some Tom and Jerry cartoons on the big movie screen that covers the stage while Social Distortion’s "Let It Be Me" blares over the PA. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that figure moving my way. Ah shit, I hear Marty say, and we both glance over to see Nikki making her way towards us.

Tonight, she has on a black and purple short dress, black stockings, and a pair of black high-heeled shoes. Her hair is not pulled up, or in a ponytail, it is let down. Staring ahead, she walks right by us. She never pauses, never hesitates, doesn’t miss a stride. Has she always walked this way when she walks alone? Then she’s gone and all I see is the cigarette machine. We stand there, just a couple of clowns in faded clothes holding their beers. I realize Marty isn’t talking. The place seems quiet, although bottles must be clinking, people must be talking, and music must be playing.

Hey, man, Marty says. I look at him. Don’t forget to breathe, he says.

- SlugFest Ltd. #3,4; Winter-Spring 1997-98

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