Story #3: THIS IS THE BIG STORY IN WHICH OUR HERO TRIUMPHS OVER INSURMOUNTABLE ADVERSITY OF HIS OWN CREATION (and you all go home smiling)

This story begins at the very first stool in the picture of the bar above. It starts before all the other stories you've read. It is crass, and obnoxious, and unacceptable. If I have not earned your trust by now, than I ask you to turn back, and forget that you ever endevoured to read these indulgent ramblings. Just walk away. If someone is holding a weapon to your head and demanding that you read this, it is me; and I assure you, I would never really hurt you.

So we are comrades, then. Good.

You have understood that I was drunk as the previous narratives unfolded. But for this one, you must consider the difference between the simple "drunk", and the mystical sort of "drunk". We can all get "drunk", and Bob bless us for it. What I'm talking about is an intoxication that comes only from alcohol consumed on the emptiest and loneliest and most careless of stomachs. A stomach found in the belly of a man who has given up on the gentler possibilities of youth, and has made a decision to simply not give a crap.

What I'm trying to say is that I was shit-housed.

And at the time, tragically, to my embarassment, I considered myself something of an actor. And so it was that an effort had been mounted to bring David Mamet's "Glengarry Glen Ross" to the stage through the magic of sock puppetry. It must me said that I was not alone in this undertaking, and those that joined me with vigorous intention remain friends to this day. Though this dream failed to materialize, they were glorious days, and I confidently speak for us all when I say that we look back upon those halcion days with a stirring pride in what we dared.

Anyway, so this one time, I'm totally fixated on playing the Ricky Roma guy, who is deftly portrayed by Al Pacino in the movie. And I'm really getting into character. In the "stupid actor" sense of getting into character. Like, I have my friend by the shirt, as he bartends, pulling him to my face, going way off script, and explaining to him explicitly why he is not a "man." But he's cool; he's along for the ride.

I berate him to the point of breathlessness, and then I turn my head...

Okay, now, at this point I need you to read with an "ear" that can discern underneath all of this, a certain "charm." You, reader, need to understand that I am NOT THIS GUY. I am just being a character... I am just saying things that I don't mean... and being drunk is my excuse.

So I turn my head, and I see this girl, and she looks done with the goddamn world. She just wants a drink, like anyone does this late in the day, and fella, she looks like she deserves it. And I lean in eye-to-eye with this stranger, whose bartender I have by the neck, and in my best Al Pacino, I announce clearly, with clarity, and concision, and intention, "YOU... ARE A WHORE."

And then I continued. I never remember the streams of obscenities that come out of my mouth in these situations, but my instinct is that this one was fantastic. I'm talking about a Mighty Mississippi of perversions committed by her lineage, and what she could do with her dog, and her Bible, and her mommy and daddy... Fucking Joycean, my friends.

When I'm done, her friend shows up. Who is also my friend. And she is livid. And would like to get Sicilian on my ass (she was short, but with a glare and intensity that would make you stay up all night to make sure your purebreds were safe, or make sure you didn't tell her to go get her "shine box" ), and she wants to know who this "asshole" is.

Then everything went haywire, and the next thing I know is, I'm on one knee, at the shoe museum in Toronto asking the very same girl to marry me.

After much confusion and disbelief, she said, "Of course."

Her name is Angela, and lieu of pulling out my heart, I offer up a vial of my own blood as a totem for this story.