In the Den of Crapulence
The only good thing about getting
waylaid by a heavy case of the flu, aside from catching
up with Colonels Hogan and Klink, is the resulting
drought rekindles one’s appreciation for nectar alcohol. After
four hideously sober days of fever deliriums and
cold sweats, I arose from my bed, pulled on a pair
of trousers and said to myself: ”I’m
going to go have a drink.”
Not a shocking statement, to be sure, I say it to
myself quite often. But after my sickbed prohibition,
the words fairly sparkled with promise. If memory
serves, this was the first time in ten years I’d
gone so long without a drink, and while I have no
desire to repeat the experience, it was not without
its gifts.
It made
me realize how much I was taking for granted. When
I walked into my local it was akin to passing through
the gilded gates of Shangri-La. Though the joint is
an outright dive, it somehow appeared stately and
new. The hobos seemed well scrubbed, their crude mumbles
sounded as the wittiest of ripostes, the swarthy and
unshaven bartender appeared a gentleman of the highest
order. The bottles behind the bar fairly gleamed with
a nearly forgotten promise, the rattle of ice being
scooped into a glass sounded like diamonds tinkling
into Waterford crystal. Waiting for my first Kentucky
Beau Whiskey on the rocks, I felt the giddiness of
a doughboy from Hogsbreath, Alabama embarking on his
first three-day pass to Paris.
And the
taste. Kentucky Beau, which I commonly refer to as
monkey piss, tasted like sunshine distilled through
a mermaid’s
golden locks. I gazed around the dive (which, I am
ashamed to say, I have sometimes casually and callously
referred to as “the Den of Crapulence”)
and thought,
What a very fine place, what excellent company.
Have I never noticed how low and comfortable the
lighting is, how the jukebox glows in the corner
like an inviting hearth? Look how easy laughter comes
in such a place, how content the world seems from
the barstool. Surely this is paradise.
My cell phone rang. It was my wife wanting to know
where I was.
“I’m sitting in a palace of wisdom and
delights, supping on liquid rapture,” I informed
her.
“You’re what?”
“I’m lounging in Nirvana, basking in
golden sunshine that some kind of goddamn mermaid
has spun into sweet, sweet joy.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Drunk with joy! Drunk with the company of
a forgotten friend, a prince really, who—”
“You have a fever. Where—”
“I’m at the Den of Crapulence swilling
monkey piss.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
Because I’d rediscovered how good monkey piss
swilled in a den of crapulence was, that’s
why.
