I was gay for the night when the world tied me on a string around its whirling index. I spun the street’s only tornado with my hat in my hand and a full heart inside my shirt. The evening’s streetlights shot unattainable blondes and bourbon buried barrel coopers into the spotlight; swaying in their own despondent ways. I was true joy, knowing the good news was pulling into town the next day.
Crossing the cobble to Jackson’s I knew Teddy would already be waiting under his trilby with one lazy eye on the clock and another on his wristwatch. He would see my silhouette first, skipping up the stairwell wall two steps at a time in a dance he didn’t know and that I’d only learned. And then, ta-da.
Sure enough he would have a whiskey waiting for me, the rim of the glass a virgin to the kind of celebratory thirst I was bringing. The stool would have been held for me all right, there at the corner of the bar under the lamp, the newspaper saved from the fire so I could check the arrival times. Teddy and I would bury whiskies until our drunken mouths split hyena laughter across the lounge. Certain folks wouldn’t “appreciate” that.
And we did bury them. All in the name of the good news. Off into the opposite of light and day and function. The hours were not hours that night, time was not a thing. The thing was living itself. Each glass that clicked against the next with the little wave of whiskey eroded itself the idea of time.
I woke in Teddy’s already dressed for the tomorrow upon me. I slung on my trilby and whistled a cab to the station, knowing Ethel would be arriving with the good news.
-end-
all words are mine. if you enjoyed the story, let me know.
Gene Murphy Writer 
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