For folks who don't want to read about The Walking Dead, here is this section. We get to see something rather amusing, for me. Lucy's constant harping and nagging was actually working. Jon was really thinking about just letting it all go. Then, Sam and Kenny with their incomplete understanding of the situation come along and screw it up. They mean well, but you know how that goes. This is also another section that lets Kenny just be a little weird for the sack of being weird. Table of contents here.
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I didn’t want to argue with Kenny about the appropriateness of our suits. When we got to the bar, he placed the order for two cherry cokes. The bar tender asked if he was serious, and he said he was always serious. And don’t call him serious. I don’t think he ever got over Leslie Nielsen’s death.
“Hey, didn’t I see you on TV?” Asked a rather well-drunken man.
“You’ve got a fan, Sam.”
“Yeah, you were selling knives or something like that,” The man said, turning on the stool. He was drunk. Kenny described this kind of drunk as “wanting to be fall-down-sloppy drunk, but not having the balls to go through with it.”
“I was doing a favor for a friend.”
“A girl, right?” He leaned against the bar, looking out into the crowd. “Women, man. Look at what they turn us into.”
“What do you mean?”
“They got you guys wearing pink suits and running them drinks, and mine turned me into a drunken slob.”
Kenny tried to get the bar tender’s attention, but I have the feeling he didn’t like mixing cherry cokes. It is sort of like asking someone with a master’s degree in painting to paint your walls. Do they give you master degrees in that?
“Actually, the pink was his idea,” I said pointing to Kenny. “The non-alcoholic beverages though are the girls’ idea.”
“How’d your girl turn you into a drunken slob?”
“My wife slept with someone else,” He said. He spun around the stool so fast that I reached over to steady him.
“Toss her,” I said. “No one needs that.”
“Too late for that now,” He responded, I want to say melancholically, but I think it was just drunkenness seeping through, not melancholy.
“You can still toss her,” Kenny said. “It is just more expensive.”
“I’m just saying, stay away from women; more trouble than they’re worth.”
Kenny didn’t say anything, which I took as my cue to also stop talking. This was the wrong cue, apparently, as our new friend kept going. “So, yeah. Who needs women anyway?”
“Only if they’re being breast fed Sam, and then they don’t need women. Just their mom. Or any lactating woman, in general,” Kenny said.
“Or a man wearing those fake breasts,” The drunk said. This was a point that had gone unconsidered in my original theory. “See, who needs women?”
“Not all women are that bad,” I said, trying a different approach.
“Easy for the guy in a pink suit who is going to get laid tonight to say.”
“Yeah, I have a sneaking suspicion our pal Sam is not getting more than a lower-than-expected tux rental fee tonight,” Kenny said. “Oh, that’s the other reason I picked pink. It was cheaper.”
“You know, this is the longest cherry coke pouring I’ve ever experienced,” I said. “Look, if you hate your wife so much, just tell her off.”
“I was going to. But, a friend of mine — not really a friend, I guess, more a, well, underling — convinced me maybe I was wrong to make a big deal of it. I was just going to pretend like it never happened,” the drunk said. “Just go out there and say how wonderful she was.”
In a few hours’ time, when I look back on this moment, I’d realize his wording was peculiar. But at this exact moment, I just chalked it up to being drunk and stupid. Drupid, as Kenny would say. He had tried stunk, but, well, that didn’t work quite as well.
“Screw that,” Kenny said. “She hurt you, right?”
“Well, don’t take that sitting down, right Sam?”
“I’m of the opinion yelling doesn’t solve anything.”
“Except ending segregation, scaring off would-be rapists and calling for doctors,” Kenny said.
“So, on second thought, yelling solves a lot of problems.”
“You guys are fucking brilliant,” The drunk said. He reached over the bar and pulled some notecards out of the trash. “Fucking right. I’m going to stand up for myself. Screw her. Screw both of them.”
“Screw her for screwing him!” Kenny said.
“Damn straight!” The drunk said, as he pulled himself to his feet. He pulled out a $100 bill and gave it to the bartender. “Their cherry cokes are on me.”
“Thanks man,” I said. “My name’s Sam. This is my friend Kenny.”
The drunk looked at us, then smiled and winked. “My name’s Jon. Have a good night.”