Thirty Three: Blank and Anxious February 19, 2014Posted by The Typist in 365, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Blank and anxious.
Sounds good like a mess of wings but there`s no words on the bone, the flavorful arrangement of nothing much. I`d have to write a pile of these to satisfy the usual crowd in my head but my it’s empty as this bar: beer man, barmaid and a woman whose retirement plans involve Parliments and lipstick red vodka glasses. I thought the burnished brown Guinness on a polished bar would do what the Klonopin could not, that the ashtrays would speak their secrets, the ghosts of stories from a hundred last nights would reveal themselves but Irma Thomas is relentlessly cheerful and carefully arranged and I’m a mess, in the mood for a gin neck slow hand and some kind of sorrow sliding down like cool beer, an antidote for anxious and blank. Each sip is a step down the rickety panic ladder but blank is harder. Staring at the hole in the wall and waiting for a rabbit is a recipe for a finger-licking mess of habanero volcano trouble that will leave me wondering: what was I thinking when I ordered that?