AUTO PILOT

WHEN GEORGE LEFT the gallery he was headed straight to the bar. Even though it was late afternoon, still very much daylight, he was on his way straight to the bar for beer. Only beer had enough weight to contend with the juggernaught replaying over and over.

As he walked there was a contest. Things aren’t so hopeless. Then, revenge, the appropriate revenge. And then, it wasn’t that bad, forget about it. No, fuck her, she’s an idiot. But you’re making it into something it’s not. Fuck it, ignore her.

But, her body stiff, her eyes frozen straight ahead. Stuffing that image over and over amidst the hectic sorting he walked steadily through the French Quarter to the bar.

It was the party season. Tourists were everywhere. George glared at Middle America and the South and hated all. The old world façades of the French Quarter were just right for them. One of the jewels in our crown, as some politician had put it. Just facades, empty shells. Inside could be anything, a plethora of T-shirt shops, poster shops, dayglow daiquiri shops, anything could be behind those walls. Let them have it. Their fat asses are just here because they’re awe struck by the idea that they can walk the streets with a beer in their hand. How adventurous. How naughty. They’ll head to Bourbon Street and clog it up and then really show what they’re made of, tits for plastic beads, get their asses beat by policemen. Then they’ll go vomit in a public bathroom or piss on the side of an old world treasure.

Damn, George, relax, he thought to himself. You love the Quarter. No, the Quarter I love doesn’t exist anymore.

It used to be Bohemia. Now it’s just a profane playground. And a retirement community. Old, flabby money settling here to change everything. Sanitize the place. Make it something they can stomach. Like oatmeal and prunes. I hate that shit. They see something in a place that compels them to become a part of it and once they get there they go about changing it. Noise ordnances, outlawing tap dancing black kids, carting off the homeless to some unseen part of town. I like a little homeless in my stew. Put some hot sauce in that oatmeal.

His mood hastened his walk and colored all subjects that came to mind. He was the black cat of bad luck for anything that crossed his path.

Her blonde hair, her thin frame and attractive face, as long as she wasn’t a moron she had all it took to sell her product. The paintings basically sold themselves. People who walked into the gallery with the ability to put a few thousand towards a piece of art were not obstacled by the blonde. They drew their clientele from the tourists. America has a lot of money to spend and believe it or not a lot of it is spent on art. America has been sold things from blondes forever. The gallery did well. The blonde did well.

George, however, was another story. He was a brown skinned man with dark curly hair. He worked at the gallery too. It was as often as not that an individual or couple would walk along the long wall of display windows admiring the paintings, only to get to the door, peer towards him at the desk, quickly turn their heads and move on down the street. His sales came from big city people. Mostly the northeast and the west coast. Of course there were plenty of exceptions but that was the general trend. Often people who had come in and browsed with him and chatted him up for info, would leave only to return and buy from the blonde.

He did all right, but nothing like the blonde.

As he approached The Abby he wasn’t as hot as he started out but more invigorated. George knew a glass of water would have been just as satisfying but today not a chance. He set out on a mission and the way beer was with him there was no way once he started down that path he was gonna turn back.

It was too early for young hipsters. Hard core day drinkers of all sizes and ages with their unconscious tattered clothing and their placated faces. The Abby’s dark dingy Goth interior. The super tattooed barmaid with the dead eyes who’d once been pretty good looking but now too skinny and no shine.

“Can I get a Heineken and a wild turkey?” he said.

What had happened he knew he’d read it accurately. He and the blonde had this banter that was slow to develop.

He’ld come in on days when he wasn’t manning the front desk and do shipping and other back room work. He would hang out in front with blonde and they’ld shoot the shit while she shopped on line for clothes including Victoria’s Secret style lingerie and super pump stilettos and check for latest on her favorite super models.

But over time there interaction became more and more revealing and more risqué but with a certain restraint, a line was pregnant that wasn’t crossed.

Until today. But not really. Not for him. They had been taking about hot models on the web and he was making his point that though they were all gorgeous and quite breasty, he was mostly an ass man and the firm teardrop his favorite. The teardrop, the way he envisioned it was sorely underrepresented in the fashion world. They talked about going out that night. Then as he was saying goodbye with a hug as usual he reached down and pinched her ass. He felt her shock. Releasing, he laughed a nervously and gave her a quick look saying, “Just checking.” But what he saw on her face a frozen woman and the smile and the “Goodbye.” embarrassed him.

Then he got angry. Who does she think she is? She is so fucking full of herself. I was just kidding. I didn’t mean that, I didn’t mean anything. It was just a joke.

And he really felt unattractive. He’d once been a fairly fit and attractive man. He had no problems with the ladies. But now he felt overweight and lazy which is what he was he had to admit. But he still vain. Fuck her, he thought. Fuck her if she can’t take a joke. Fuck her if she can’t take a yoke.

The hours passed beer after beer. Eventually the hipsters were ensconced, uniforms derivative of different eras, anything but Middle America off the rack. A D.J. was spinning hip hop and the place was loud and crowded. Booze was flowing but it wasn’t the only thing rolling through the crowd. Groups four and even more were going into the restrooms together. He was pretty crocked. He could stand one of those tag alongs to the restroom.

At the end of the bar near the door was Ricky, The Man. George went down to him.

“Yo, bra.” George said.

“What up, Georgie?” Ricky said.

“How “bout it?” Georgie said.

“Come on.” Ricky said.

George followed Ricky out back to the court yard. He handed Ricky two twenties, Ricky gave him a small aluminum foil packet. Then Ricky opened a small glass vial and inserted a key then offered a key tip of white powder to George. It stood as a tiny white mountain on the end of the brass key. They went back inside.

The music was sounding pretty good. George hadn’t been paying that much attention before but now everything was more interesting. People were chatting and there were many that he knew. Instead of resuming his place at the bar chose to sit at a table with people he knew. He didn’t feel like talking, just said hello and watched the room. Everything felt alright. There were lots of pretty girls. Who shall it be, he thought. He watched as different people went to and returned from the restroom. He thought of the tinsel packet in his pocket.

And there she was. The blonde was at the bar with her back to where he sat. He’d not thought about her for quite a while. Now it was slightly amusing to see her. He felt some sort of triumph and that more were possible. He thought of the shiny little packet in his pants pocket. He watched the to and fro from the restroom.