"All I want is some pussy", said Ashok, garnering a look of shock from both 'Shank and I before we both started laughing. It was the funniest thing we'd both heard all day--a thick-accented Indian declaring that universal desire that all straight men harbour.
We were at venerable neighbourhood nightspot Rocky's for a few latenight drinks. Ashok, who at one point during the evening declared that he drank two pints of whiskey a day, was already tipsy when he arrived. He promptly upped the ante by ordering us a round of tequila shots as well as a pitcher of Texas' favourite--Shiner Bock.
Ashok had never had Shiner, as it doesn't seem to be all that popular on the Indian Subcontinent. Mainly because it doesn't exist on the Indian Subcontinent. Kristen, our lovely waitress, returned with our "fucking" pitcher of beer before she got the shots, so we started with a few sips of the delectable nectar while we awaited the only good thing, besides Salma Hayek, to come out of Mexico to arrive at our table. Ashok seemed to like the Shiner. And of course 'Shank and I liked it. The tequila shots finally arrived, smelling sickly-sweet of agave and lime. In that time-honoured convention, we licked the salt, swallowed the tequila and sucked the limes. And instantly, my stomach rolled a couple of times. Tequila does that to me. It's not unlike an army of crabs scuttling about in my abdomen, which is a scary thought in and of itself.
As conversations in bars tend to do, ours quickly turned to sex. 'Shank asked Ashok when he last got laid. To my relief, as I'm coming up on almost six months of what is perhaps the longest drought of my life, apart from that initial 18 years, Ashok hadn't had a horizontal joyride in over a year, since before he left India to come Stateside, after which he made the aforementioned declaration about his desire for a woman's company. I didn't feel so bad after that revelation. We asked Ashok if he'd ever had sex with a non-Indian, to which he replied in the negative, but then said "I'm looking forward to having sex with a white girl", which, of course, garnered more laughs.
Our conversation was eventually interrupted by alcoholic BMW salesman Mr. Truce--the man with two first names. He stumbled--as he is wont to do--into the bar, already drunk and reeking of cheap cologne. He made his rounds of the bar, talking with various other patrons before wobbling his way over to our table.
Mr. Truce always seems pathetic in that old man, alcoholic sort of way. He's got a thing for black women and never seems to have a problem hooking up with a Nubian princess here or there. He also sings Sinatra like Sinatra would sing Sinatra if only Sinatra weren't lying dead in a hole in the ground in Palm Springs. In fact, singing Sinatra is about the only time Mr. Truce seems to have his wits about him, but that might only be because you kind of expect Sinatra songs to have the lilt of an intoxicated man, mainly because Sinatra himself was somewhat of an alcoholic himself.
A dirty old man, obviously, Mr. Truce likes to regal us with his bawdy poetry. The poems inevitably go something like:
No, a cockle
No, a cock hold
She gripped it tightly
Saying I love you
As it went tick-tock
Nonsense, right? That's what comes out of the mind of the alcohol-addled. The thing about his poetry, while not only making absolutely no sense, is that the poems always seem to end about three lines too soon, causing us to go "that's it?" as we wait for some kind of verbal punchline that never comes.
Mr. Truce quickly--as always--grew annoying, but wouldn't move along to another table. He told us a--probably fictional--story about when he was managing the New York Playboy Club in 1964 and the Beatles came by after playing the Ed Sullivan Show. Apparently, he stole Ringo's "English Beanie" (Mr. Truce's words) and gave it to his black maid (whom he was no doubt banging on the side, knowing his preference for the "dark side"). Years later, in what is surely some weird, movie-esque cosmic coincidence, Mr. Truce was walking down the street in D.C. when a bus pulled up next to him and his old maid got off and said "Oh, Peter...They're taking away our social security and our welfare". Peter replied "Do you still have that Beatle's beanie I gave you?", to which the maid replied, "Oh yes, of course I do."
And that was it. That was his story. Just like his poetry, it left us wanting more. Awaiting a punchline or something. Verbal closure. But that was all he had to tell. It was a letdown. I wanted to hear how the maid sold the beanie at auction for some grand sum and was able to retire to the Hamptons and hire her own maid, but that part never came. Instead, I was left feeling mentally hollow, unfulfilled by this drunken old man's pointless--in the end--story.
Mr. Truce finally ambled off to annoy others, leaving 'Shank, Ashok and I to our own devices. The tequila, Shiner and glass of Stella Artois that I'd had were finally making their move on my mental faculties and I was ready to call it an evening. Ashok paid our tab and we made our way home. After arriving home, I got undressed and stumbled drunkenly into my bed, having one last laugh at the thought of that thick Indian accent saying "All I want is some pussy".