"Five bells. It's about fucking time."
Our hero pulls the sleeve of his coveralls back up over his watch, promptly drops his shovel in the dirt and marches over to where the truck is parked. Wasting no time he sheds his blue probans and worn out steel-toes, jumps into the driver seat, lights a cigarette, turns up the Venom on the stereo and before the boss can say "Seeya in the a.m." or some equally quaint and hollowly cheerful farewell, all that’s left of him are tail lights.
Another day, another dollar. Just like the one before that and the one before that and so on and so forth.
Our hero’s social life however, seems to also follow the same ridiculous repetitive pattern as his working life, for he knows that sooner or later this very evening he will find himself once again perched on a lonely stool drinking beer at the Ooze just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and so on and so forth.
It's never planned that way, it just happens.
Our hero in this story is called Buck. This is the name his father gave him.
...
Once the essential shit, shower and shave portion of his evenings events is over, depending on if anyone’s called to invite him out, he may have a meal before he goes to the bar. If someone’s called, chances are he'll just grab an apple, stuff his discman in his pocket and his headphones in his ears and be out the door. If no one calls he'll make dinner, eat it, browse through the sea of rubbish evening television, and wait around getting bored before he finally figures he's thirsty enough to brave the elements and go to the bar.
This is one of those evenings.
Like most males in their early twenties, Buck has the hygiene routine down to an efficient science and it only takes twenty minutes to relieve his bowels of all the days coffee induced gut-rot, then run through the rain room and relieve his body of the day’s filth. The longest part of this process is usually deciding what CD he's going to listen to while he accomplishes this.
Today it is Blood for Blood, which is why one may not find it at all shocking that within an hour our hero will be pouring beer after beer down his gullet.
"...self destruction on a daily basis,
intoxication is my only oasis..." he quietly growls to himself in the steam of the shower.
Now cleansed, and with some leftover pork chops and mashed potatoes in the microwave, he unplugs his cell phone from the charger and checks it's messages. There are none.
"Fair enough."
Although this might make some people a little blue, Buck shrugs it off and like his friends, also doesn't bother to phone anyone or attempt to find any company because he knows the odds are heavily in his favor that he'll see one or more of them at the bar with a couple brew already in their bellies when he arrives.
Finally after the left-overs are engulfed, boots are laced up, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, CD's, discman and the ever elusive touque are accounted for, Buck takes his ratty, hand-me-down leather jacket and is out the door.
...
It's a brisk evening, a clear night with plenty of stars and a bright moon that gives the skiff of late autumn frost on the grass a dull blue glow. He sighs, watching his breath trail off into the atmosphere,
"Goddamn winter..." he mutters and wonders once briefly if he should go back into the house to change into some long-jons but instead he marches off through the alley. Fuck it, he thinks to himself, I'll be there in fifteen minutes anyways.
On he strolls through the blackness of Innisfail's backstreets, getting barked at by the occasional neighborhood mutt and wading through the stench of the Ralston-Purina dog food plant on the nearby truck route.
Upon crossing the plant’s mostly empty parking lot he reaches the train tracks and, glancing quickly back and forth, steps in between the rails and heads south. Buck always felts a certain degree of paranoia walking on the tracks with headphones on, especially when it happened to be a wall of down-tuned distortion and feedback that he can’t even hear his footsteps through, but rather than simply turn it down, he opts instead to look over his shoulder every few moments like some nomadic fugitive of trains, waiting for the day that one will catch him.
Afew hundred railroad ties down the line, our hero steps off the trail and crosses the street to his final destination of the night. There it is in all of it's inglorious glory, the big red brick monolith that is the Ooze.
He quickly bounds up the few wooden steps leading to the heavy steel green door, throws it open and with a puff of nicotine smoke, he disappears inside.
Shaking the chill off his bones in the doorway, he removes his headphones and surveys this night’s situation.
Dead.
Shocking.
It's a weekday crowd. Even less, it's a cold autumn weekday crowd, which finds alot of the town drunks in a short lived hibernation while they adjust to the inevitable frost that will plague them for the next four months.
But not our hero!
He's there with the other small handful of true believers, fighting for his right to party...that being have afew monotonous drinks before he begrudgingly stumbles home to bed.
Nevertheless, he has arrived, undaunted by weather, fatigue or the morning’s alarm clock that constantly haunts the back of his mind. A small triumph, but a triumph all the same.
...
Rage is behind the bar, just twisting the cap off a bottle of bud that she hands to Dwight and even though he's sitting on his usual stool it takes our hero a minute to recognize him when he realizes that Dwight's actually clipped his shaggy black mop.
Simply stunning.
That's probably the only noticeable difference in the bar, the other being that it apparently is Rage's last night shift.
"What?!" our hero says with obvious disappointment, "why?"
"I'm fuckin sick of this dude, I want my nights back. I mean sure, the tips might be better on the night shift, but it's a trade off because it's also fulla’ drunk assholes! I've done my time on nights, I want a break." says Rage as she grabs a fresh mason jar, fills it with ice, two shots of rye whiskey, tops it with ginger ale and stabs in a couple pink straws before setting it gracefully in front of our hero.
He gives a sympathetic nod and shrugs, "Fair enough, if anyone’s earned it, you have." he says and hands her a crumpled tenner.
"Goddamn right."
"Well shit Rage, we best get some shots in for the occasion!"
"Jager?"
"You know it."
She pours a couple, they hoist, gently clink the glasses, tap the bar and then down the hatch.
Gak, who was standing at the jukebox, wanders over and takes a seat next to Buck. Rage glances over at him,
"Another one Gak?"
He gives a tired nod with a slight grin on his face then slowly reaches over to his pack of cigarettes and offers one to Buck before lighting one himself.
Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode fades in and begins blaring from the speakers.
You can always tell when Gak's hit the jukebox, usually just by his presence in the bar, but also by the steady amount of 80's synth-pop that gets played while he's there.
"Thanks." Buck says as he takes a long drag from the donated smoke, "So Gak, what's the craic? How's things?"
"Oh not too shabby" he replies with a lazy shrug, "not delivering pizza anymore."
Buck nearly chokes on his own cigarette smoke,
"Get the fuck outta here!"
Gak has been a pizza delivery driver since the dawn of time, with one shop or another, but he has always done it.
"No really, I got myself a job at Suds, and Cold Beer, just goin' back and forth."
Buck makes a puzzled face,
"Suds?"
"It's the new liquor store on main street, you know where the old Esso gas station used to be? Naynay bought it and turned it into a beer store slash car wash." says Gak as he takes another swig of pilsner.
"Unreal." says Buck, "Places that involve booze sales and vehicles always make me laugh, like the used car dealer slash liquor store just outside of Edmonton. The drive-through liquor stores take the cake though."
"That’s true." Gak nods.
Rage pipes up, "It's not all that shocking, it's actually a reoccurring motif in society. Make something illegal, but also make sure it's a law that's really easy and convenient to break. Make music piracy illegal but produce every computer made with a burner and every store from Wal-Mart to 7-Eleven selling blank CD's? Speed limits of no more than 110km an hour and cars that have the capacity to go 200? It's just business. The more drunk drivers caught on the road, the more fines the government can rake in. It's a cash cow."
Both men think for a moment and nod in agreement.
"Good call." says our hero.
"Yeah, well put." says Gak.
This is why Rage is one of the best barmaids in this solar system. Fast, efficient service, a genuine concern for the clientele and the clever social commentary you'd expect from the bartending elite.
Just don't make her mad.
...
"So geez gak, how're you adjusting to the new routine behind a counter instead of behind the wheel?" our hero says.
"It's alright, a little boring, but ok. It's not half as high stress as trying to rush food around town, definitely not as high stress as working for Obee-one." gak says, pointing with his chin to the pizza store across the street.
“I hear ya there,” Buck nods, “I did my time with Obee-one Perogi. Nice guy, and not bad to work for, but not too great either. Remember that time a few pizzas got burnt and he threw one at me, hot pan and all, and then chucked the spatula at you?”
“Yeah,” says Gak, rocking with laughter on his stool.
“Fuckin ridiculous,” says Buck, laughing as well.
Buck had worked with Gak at the pizza shop a couple years earlier when he was still a minor. After quitting the job he never saw Gak at all until he turned eighteen and started frequenting the Ooze. Now it was back to seeing him almost every other day.
“So yeah, with all the spare time at Suds and Cold Beer, I pretty much just watch TV or goof around with crosswords.” says Gak very matter-of-factly.
"I could see myself burning through a lot of books in a job like that." says Rage with a smile.
Buck shakes his head, "Wow. That's four liquor stores now for Innisfail. I'm surprised they stay in business with the population we've got."
"I'm not!" says Rage with a laugh, "There might not be many of us, but we damn sure enjoy our drink."
"I suppose," says our hero chuckling as well "it's men, women, children and elderly alike in this place."
Our hero’s smile, however, fades out when the next song on the jukebox fades in and he hears the familiar guitar of Flock of Seagulls' "I Ran So Far" and even though Dwight is doing an awkward little dance while sitting on his stool, singing the wrong lyrics out of key, Buck knows that this music has simply got to go.
He shoots Gak a condescending glare, who replies with a slightly embarrassed shrug.
"Gak, for shame." Buck says as he puts out his cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke, proceeds over to the jukebox.
...
It's always a bit of a task picking something on this machine, mostly because it's all been heard a hundred times before. It really depends on who is in the bar and how much money a persons got. If the bar is packed, you might want to load as many songs as you can before some wanna be clubber plays two hours of "nu-pop trax" numbers one through eighty, or some buckle bunny puts on "hot country 2000!". If the bar is dead than a person can play songs at their leisure, or as Dave Gahan had just said in the previous song, enjoy the silence.
If a person is short on money, they'd want to pick very lengthy songs to occupy as much time on the jukebox as possible with minimal cash. In situations like these our hero would usually opt for "Free Bird", "Stairway to Heaven", and "Fairies Wear Boots".
There is no need for this tactic tonight, however, as he jingles what should have been Rage's tip in his pocket.
Tonight, as ridiculously distant as the two choices may be from each other, he picks two Heads, one of the Motor type and one of the Radio type.
Turning back to the bar he sees another double rye-ginger already on the bar waiting for him.
Cheers Rage, he thinks, cheers.
The chugging drum beat of "Overkill" begins to boom throughout the bar and almost as if on cue, the green steel door swings open and the Animal comes sauntering in from the cold, trench coat swaying behind him and fingerless mittens air drumming the familiar tune. He quickly steps behind the bar, takes a stick of chalk from the counter, and begins to write on the chalkboard just adjacent to the entrance,
"F-U-C-K....
"Oh boy, what's it gonna be this time..." Rage asks to no one in particular.
"....T-H-I-S-L-I-F-E-L-I-K-E-Y-O..."
"Not sure, but you can bet it'll be good." says Buck with an anxious smile.
"....U-M-E-A-N-I-T"
The Animal turns around, slaps the chalk on the bar and starts laughing, "Nice eh?"
"Fuck this life like you mean it?" says Gak squinting at the chalk board across the bar, "I don't get it."
"You wouldn't." balks the Animal in jest, slapping Gak on the shoulder as he rounds the bar over to Rage.
"Rage, may I please purchase from you a Coors light, a double rum and coke, a glass of red, and two moosehunters." he says in the most polite of tones, not so much asking a question as making a statement.
She laughs and shakes her head in bewilderment, then turns to begin assembling the Animals alcoholic arsenal, grabbing first a bottle of Crown Royal and a bottle of Amaretto to concoct the two shots, because as one of the best barmaids in the solar system, she knows that the moosehunters are the priority and will be gone long before the other three drinks are prepared.
As soon as Rage sets them in front of him, the Animal takes one of the shot glasses, and very careful not to spill sets one of them in front of Buck.
"One for the patient," hoist, clink, tap, "and one for the doctor." shoot.
Wiping the remains of the shot out of the bristles on his chin, the Animal pulls up a stump beside Buck at the bar as Rage begins placing his other drinks in front of him.
“So is that one an original?” Buck asks, gesturing to the newly defaced chalkboard.
“Nah, that’s some obscure central Alberta poet whose name escapes me for some reason. He was an overeducated street punk in Calgary, managed to get one volume of poetry published and then apparently took the money, fucked off to the Caribbean and was never heard from again.” says the Animal, sipping his red wine first.
“Hm, must be nice. I suppose it‘d be pretty easy to do when you‘ve got nothing‘ to lose anyway” Buck thinks to himself out loud.
“Haha,” laughs the Animal, “the man pulled off the Great Alberta Poetry Swindle. Take the fuckin’ money and run.”
...
It’s difficult to tell from the angle he’s sitting, but Buck is pretty sure Dwight has fallen asleep sitting up. Gak and Rage are idly watching the TV. It’s one of those generic forensic science dramas, but he can’t tell which one, mostly because he seldom watches TV, but also because they all basically pan out the same.
As would be expected from the title of the song, “Overkill” is still playing.
“So me man, what else is new besides obscure Alberta poets?” says Buck, turning his attention back to the Animal, who answers without hesitation,
“I’m having an existential dilemma.”
Buck furrows his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation without responding.
The Animal grins slightly, sips the double rum, and lights a smoke before he begins.
“In the last few weeks, I’ve become horrifyingly bored because I’ve come to the conclusion that everything is ridiculous and my life is absurd. I spend my time trying to distract myself from thinking about how much of a waste of time everything is, weather it’s by working, watching TV, listening to music, or using substances to dull my sense of reality. I derive no pleasure from these activities, they only serve to temporarily alleviate the pain of living with mediocrity. I‘m not exactly sure what to do about this, because although I was more or less aware of these things in the past, I can no longer seem to ignore them.”
Jimmy Page’s warbling intro to “No Quarter” only serves to punctuate the desolation in the Animals rant just as it comes to an end. He notices the music as Bonzo kicks in on the drums and asks Buck,
“Is this your fault?”
He shakes his head, “I’m pretty sure that one right there is responsible” and he points to Rage, standing at the jukebox, her right Chuck Taylor tapping to the beat on the rough wooden floor. She has interrupted our hero’s songs with the almighty “my song first” button. It takes two song credits, but puts the track to the front of the line. This can come in very handy on busy nights when a lot of people have fed the machine or on any night that one person puts in ten bucks at a crack and proceeds to act like the Ooze’s unpaid DJ. It is the only respite from what could be an entire nights worth of utterly shit music.
Smiling, the Animal raises his bottle of Coors. “Fuckin A Rage.”
She looks over from the play lists with a big smile and gives him a thumbs up.
Buck and the Animal both smile and slowly take a drink to the song and the suffering it suggests.
“Sounds like you got the blues my friend.” Buck says, as he scams the Animals idly burning cigarette from the ash tray.
The Animal laughs, “Yeah, I suppose that sums it up.” he adds with a slight tone of sarcasm, which seems to taint almost everything he says. Sometimes it’s possible that even the Animal himself doesn’t know when he’s serious.
“Seriously though,” says Buck, “if it’s mediocrity and the tedious grind of the rat race that’s gettin’ you down, I’d say all you really need is a change. You change your situation and it can help to change your perspective. Find a new job, or a new hobby, maybe just change your surroundings. What else can you do?”
The Animal nods, even though Buck can see that in his current state, he’s inconsolable.
“All good suggestions, but it’s easier said than done.”
“Yeah yeah, I know.” Buck concedes.
“I mean, I would love to change my surroundings, but money is always tight and I can’t just pull the wee girl outta school and hit the road, right?” He pauses, considering his daughter, “Anyways, not to worry, I know I’ll be ok.” The Animal says with a certain air of defeat.
It is true though, he will be fine. He always is.
Thus the boom and bust of small-town-life emotion carries on. Sometimes the stock invested in oneself pays off very well and sometimes you end up in the Great Depression, and on and on….
“I gotta hit the head.” says Buck.
He pushes away from the bar, sliding back his stool before he stands up and turns towards the great mural at the back of the bar. The mural sits in between two corridors, the left being for the male bathroom and the right for the female bathroom. It is a colossal painting of a cougar perched upon what one can only presume is a Rocky Mountain range cliff. At the top is a painted on placard that says “Nature’s Calling.”
He begins his slow march down the Ooze bathroom promenade, a sure fire way to tell how drunk a person is because the walk from the bar to the bathroom is just long enough to see every embarrassing drunken misstep a person may or may not take.
Avoiding his reflection as he steps into the bathroom, he rounds the corner to face the trough, a long steel urinal that stretches across the south wall of the facility. Above and beside the trough is all manner of graffiti, and he scans the walls briefly to see if there is anything new.
Nothing today.
Just the same old depressing phrases that no one can seem to wash off, although it doesn’t appear that anyone tries very often, and even when someone takes the time and effort to make the walls slightly more presentable, it only takes one weekend before it’s back to normal.
He steps up to the trough where a rather large skull and cross bones with the words “Juice was here” on it looms over him. As he begins to break the seal he observes a soggy half-smoked cigarette floating in the sweet alcoholic urine. He aims his stream at the butt like he always does, destroying it and chasing it down towards the drain. Simple pleasures, he thinks to himself.
Swaying slightly, he buttons up his fly and turns his attention to the bare area on the wall directly above where he had just relieved himself. He reaches into his cargo pocket and pulls out a small felt-tipped black sharpie and inspired by the recent act of urination writes where anyone else lined up at the trough could read it,
“Look down and say goodbye to all of your money.”
Our hero stands back and re-reads his words, looking back and forth from the phrase to the urinal’s drain, stinking of ammonia.
Fuck.
The trough begins to flush, snapping Buck out of his trance and he looks at his watch. The days events all come crashing in at once and his brain decides that the evening is over and it is time to retire weather his body agrees or not. He turns suddenly and exit’s the bathroom without washing his hands.
“Well, it appears to be that time again.” says Buck, approaching his stool and grabbing his leather jacket off the back-rest.
“What? I just got here man, have one more with me.” the Animal says, grabbing hold of Buck’s rubber arm and giving it a stern twist.
Buck slurps the dregs of his high ball from the pair of straws in the jar, preparing to decline the Animals offer, but before he can swallow, Rage has popped the cap off of a cold Pilsner and placed it on the bar for him.
She grins, “Enjoy the night cap.”
Buck looks again at his watch.
Shit.
I can’t just leave a full beer.
Shit.
Right then, Rages one Zeppelin pick ends and our hero’s song choices resume with the Radiohead song he’d wanted to hear since he got in the door.
Well, what the fuck, I’ve got a bit of time yet.
He pulls the stool back from the bar and sits down on it, “You guys are suuuure persuasive,” says Buck with a smile, “looks like that time has been temporarily delayed.”
“Atta boy” the Animal says, now finished all three of his drinks, “Rage, another Coors if you please.”
“You guys are terrible. When my mom asks me why I ended up living in a homeless shelter addicted to crack, I’m gonna tell her ‘Rage and the Animal mom, that’s why.’”
They all laugh.
“Fuck yeah” says the Animal, raising his fresh bottle, “To corruption!”
He and Buck clink their bottles and Gak raises his from his isolated corner of the bar. Dwight doesn’t do anything, and Buck is now positive that he’s unconscious, but that’s alright. Rage will wake him up and send him to his room in the motel above the bar when she’s ready to close.
“Hey man,” the Animal says to our hero, “don’t sweat it, your bed will still be there when you get home.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, well what fuckin’ time do you have to get up in the morning bud?” says Buck smiling with a false air of superiority.
“Who fuckin cares? It’s just a job dude.”
“I know," he sighs, "Tomorrow might suck, but it’s nothing I haven’t done before.”
Buck absent-mindedly peels the label from his bottle of Pilsner, rolling the paper bits between his fingers and depositing them in the ash tray. He takes a big swig, swallows and continues running his thumb nail over the label’s remains, still glued to the bottle.
“So what are your plans for the weekend?” Buck asks the Animal, before he has another sip.
“Nothin really, Sanser wanted to maybe jam a little bit. We’re not really doing much, he teaches me a bit of guitar, I fuck around with a bit of lyrics. Just stupid shit for fun. Have you heard his home recordings?”
Buck nods , “Yeah dude, the jar of change for percussion? Classic.”
“That guy is a song writing machine, it’d be really fuckin cool to actually get something going with him. Anyways, what about you? Any big plans?” the Animal asks.
“No, not really. I’ll be working all day Saturday, then Weasel wanted to do something, maybe catch a movie at the cheap theatre in Ded Reer. Fuck knows though, we’ll probably end up here.” says Buck with a shrug.
“Yeah, I’m fairly certain me and Sans Condom will be making an appearance here at some point over the weekend.” the Animal says in agreement.
“I’m fairly certain you’ll both be making a few appearances here over the weekend.” Rage pipes up from behind the bar, as she makes the rounds emptying the ash trays.
“Yeah good call,” says Buck as he takes another drink from his now completely label less bottle.
Setting it back down on the bar, he glances up at the clock above the chalk board.
He panics briefly before he remembers that the clock is twenty minutes fast, and always has been. He’s not sure why it’s never been corrected, but has also never bothered to ask. That’s just the way it is.
Well then, no rush, at least not that much of a rush.
Layne Staley and Jerry Cantrell have begun cooing the intro to “Rooster”
“Man, I should really give Edgar a call,” Buck says, vocalizing his inner monologue, “this album always reminds me of that guy.”
The Animal laughs, “Why? Because it’s a concept album about addiction and depression? Yeah I can see how that subject matter would really suit Hemlox Wolfbane.” There’s that tricky sarcasm again.
“No, fuck sake…well kind of,” says our hero with a smirk, “I mean, the subject matter is definitely why he’s into it, that and Alice in Chains just write good songs, but it reminds me of him because it’s one of the albums responsible for our friendship, the principle one being Everclear’s ‘Sparkle and Fade’ ”
“Fag shit.” the Animal says, and they both laugh.
“Well we can’t all be as hardcore as you my friend.” says our hero, tipping the rest of his beer, “Anyways, it’s my bedtime. Now I’m really gonna leave this time, so don’t any of you assholes try seducing me with alcohol because it’ll work and I actually do need to sleep for a little while tonight.”
The Animal stands up, “Yeah, I should split too. You need a lift?”
“Nah, I’d rather walk, it’s a nice night.”
“Suit yourself. Have a good one.”
“Will do, seeya in the Future.” says our hero, plugging his headphones back into his skull.
“Goodnight kids, play safe.” says Rage as they both round the bar towards the door.
“Goodnight Rage, thanks.” says the Animal, exiting first.
“Take it easy Rage.” our hero says to her over his shoulder and as he opens the door and steps back out into the night he says, “see you tomorrow.” and it isn’t really to Rage, or Gak, or the Animal in particular as much as it is to the Ooze itself.
A farewell for the evening before the next day’s inevitable rendezvous.
He slowly walks down the wooden steps outside the steel green door, stopping at the bottom to light a cigarette. He returns the Animal’s wave as he passes by in his car and takes a long drag from his smoke. Looking up at the moon, he exhales the smoke into the night.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he presses play on his discman, turns and begins the walk home.
Crossing the street towards the tracks, he glances back for a moment at the Ooze as the ethereal voice of Thom Yorke wails in his ears,
“A self-fulfilling prophecy of endless possibility
You roll in reams across the street
In algebra, in algebra
You roll in reams across the street
In algebra, in algebra
The fences that you cannot climb
The sentences that do not rhyme
In all that you can ever change
The one you're looking for
The sentences that do not rhyme
In all that you can ever change
The one you're looking for
It gets you down
It gets you down
It gets you down
There's no spark
No light in the dark
No light in the dark
It gets you down
It gets you down
It gets you down
You traveled far
What have you found
What have you found
That there's no time
There's no time
There's no time
To analyse
To think things through
To make sense”
To think things through
To make sense”
