Subtle Dig

Apologies for the website difficulties over the last week. My old hosting was being a tard. Now that we have the technical issues sorted out, check out my new digs.

You’re probably wondering what the shit is going on. The short version is I received an email from the expanding SubtleDig network the Monday before last and… wait, short version? What am I thinking? Hell, let’s get into the details. It all started on Sunday afternoon roughly 24 hours before I received the email.

After dragging my ass out of bed and flipping between the NFL games on TV, I figured it was time I did something productive. I called my lunatic writer friend Aurini who I’m currently working with on a writing project. “Hey, I have to work tomorrow but you want to grab a few beers and discuss the latest edits? Hopefully we can practice some self control and not get shit-faced for once.”

“Hell yeah, there’s a half bottle of whiskey sitting next to me. It’s looking at me funny.” He lowered his voice, “I should drink it before it gets any ideas.” I was a little leery when I heard him mention the whiskey. Drinking beer gave us a 25% chance of practicing self-control; throw whiskey into the mix and our odds are somewhere in the 3% range.

Forty-five minutes later I walked in through Aurini’s door, case of beer in hand. I cracked one open. He’d already started in on the whiskey. I reminded myself to pay close attention to his consumption levels, making sure he didn’t turn from insane lunatic into whiskey-fueled-angry-paranoid insane lunatic. Of course, two hours of drinking beer and watching the cherry on his cigarette dance around his smoke hazed outline in tune with discussion ranging from politics to feminine hygiene, I had completely lost track. Aurini eventually jumped to his feet and jabbed at me with the end of his cigarette, “I need to move around. Let’s head out. I’ll buy you a pitcher.”

We hit up the local pub. It was still early on a Sunday and aside from a sprinkle of drunks the place was desolate. The Eagles were just taking the field. Our regular bartender – a good man who participates in our conversations and is generally lenient towards our drunken antics – wasn’t working. The bartender on shift kept delivering the beer but was busy dealing with the slow trickle of customers coming through the door. As the night wore on our drunkenness was increasing in correlation with the number of patrons. By the time Andy Reid mismanaged the clock and the Eagles had fallen to the Stars, the bar was packed. The live band was playing and Aurini was getting unruly. For the last hour or so I’d had my eye on a large, intimidating dude bouncing from table to table, always with a beer in hand. People didn’t appear to enjoy his company. It wasn’t long until I heard “Hey, what’s happening over here?” and turned to my left to see him sitting in the bar stool next to me.

“Not much, man. How are you doing?” Within fifteen minutes I learned that our new, twenty-five year old friend had been released from jail six months prior after serving five years for armed robbery and auto theft. He had two kids in another city, and a third on the way. That he had got his new girlfriend pregnant a few weeks out of prison by knocking her up in a mall food court bathroom, and that jail is “sweet because there’s lots of family waiting in there. All you do is smoke weed, snort coke, work out, and do steroids.” He was upset that he’d lost forty pounds of muscle since leaving prison and starting his construction job. He used to be 290.

The big guy lifted up his beer glass, “The name is Dice. Dice with a dollar sign.”

I clinked his glass, “a dollar sign in front of it?”

“No you dumb-ass,” he leaned back holding his stomach while he laughed, “instead of an ‘S’. D-I-dollar sign-E.”

“But dice is spelled with… errr nevermind… to Dice with a dollar sign!” We chugged our beers down.

Like a wick burning on a candle made of gasoline, it wasn’t long before whiskey-drunk Aurini, hardened-criminal Di$e and handsome-gentleman Griffin got a little out of hand. The first strike against us was an argument with two ladies who’d been sitting next to us at the bar. I missed what happened while I was taking a leak but I came back just in time to see the girls storm out. When I asked him for an official explanation all Aurini said was: “Hot chicks think they’re entitled to bitchiness. I dissuaded them from this notion.” The bar’s manager, who we vaguely know, walked in just as the girls made a big fuss about leaving. Stike two was our insistence at yelling “PLAY FREEBIRD” whenever the band paused between songs. It’s the kind of joke that gets funnier every time you yell it – if you’re drunk. Besides, I really like Freebird, so if they did play it, I would get to Rock The Fuck Out. Finally, Aurini and Di$e got into a heated argument because Di$e thought that having two baby-mamas whom he doesn’t provide with a cent of child support was a brag-worthy accomplishment (dollars in name don’t correspond to dollars in pocket, apparently). Better yet, they give him money so he can drink beer and fuck bar skanks. In response Aurini tossed out words such as “dead-beat” and “moral coward.” The argument culminated with Aurini out of his bar stool, voice booming louder than the live band’s music, fists smashing against the bar and the manager coming over and politely asking us to leave. Strike three, you’re out.

I was in such a rush to usher Aurini out of the bar before we got permanently banned from one of the few establishments in the area we aren’t permanently banned from, that I left my gloves inside. Aurini stayed outside while I went to get them. As I picked up my gloves, Di$e saw me and came lumbering over.

“Where you guys going?” I hadn’t even realized he was almost a half foot taller than me.

“Aurini got the boot for arguing with you. We’re heading to another bar.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you don’t want to do that,” I smiled trying to think of reasons why he didn’t want to.

“This place sucks. I’m hanging out with you guys.”

“We’ll come back and hang out later.” I slapped him on the upper arm. He wasn’t ready for it and his coordination was off. The beer spilled out of the glass and onto his black jacket.

He turned serious and glared down at me “Give me five bucks for the beer you just spilled.”

“Five bucks? I’m not one of your baby-mamas,” I laughed. “Besides that was fifty cents worth of beer at most.” I slapped his arm again in the same spot, good-naturedly but also to put some distance between us. His beer spilled even more than the first time. Fuck.

“You spilled it again. What the fuck? Give me five bucks.” He stared at me. I stared back at him. Nobody flinched.

“That’s maybe a dollar’s worth I’ve spilled now. You go hit on some pretty girls, and we’ll see you another time.” I turned and walked away not sure if he’d follow or deliver a haymaker to the back of my head. He did neither. We were free and headed to another local bar. The last time we were there Aurini was kicked out for yelling “TOBY KEITH IS A FUCKING PUSSY” during karaoke night. It was once again Karaoke night but it’d been a few months. Water under the bridge, we hoped.

The lounge had a small elevated stage at the front with a horse-shoe of booths around it, except along the right hand side where the bar was housed. Scattering the central floor were a dozen odd tables. We sat at the nearest empty one; most people were in the booths. I went up to buy the pitcher. The bartender recognized me and poured a pitcher of our regular beer before I said hello. He wasn’t the one that had kicked Aurini out and he didn’t seem to mind our presence. We would soon change his mind.

Back at the table, Aurini was hovering in and out of consciousness as he sipped from his beer. I browsed the karaoke song selection binder on our table for Freebird. No Skynyrd. Aurini took his beer to a table full of people. Given his current state of intoxication, I wasn’t sure he was coherent. Given the reactions of confusion and laughter from the patrons at the table, I determined he was not. I used the time to sign up for the karaoke version of “Like a Stone” by Audioslave.

During university, I worked fulltime on the nightshift. I used to sing their first album, Cochise, on repeat in my car to stay awake. I know every word to every song and actually got pretty good at singing most of them. One time while trashed, I found myself at a karaoke night and as a joke my friends signed me up to sing “Show Me How to Live.” When my name was called, I stumbled up on auto-pilot and belted out a flawless rendition without thinking twice. It was my only time ever doing karaoke and at the end of it I received a standing ovation. For fifteen seconds in that dingy bar, I was a rock star. One of the finest moments of my life. I hoped to recreate a more spectacular experience on this night.

Aurini crashed down into his chair, muttering something unintelligible. I could hardly hide my excitement about karaoke but all he could do is look at me through alcohol-soaked eyes before passing out into his arms folded across the table. He stayed in that position like an old Greek statue representing the God of drinking too much, too fast. Some girls at the table next to me found Aurini’ state rather humorous. I leaned back in my chair pretending not to know what they were talking about. “Whaaat? He’s fine. He’s just meditating.”

The waitress came by the table. I shot up a hand, “Waitress! Get my friend 3 shots of whiskey!”

“Not a chance,” she walked right on by.

For half an hour, I sat there working on the pitcher that Aurini was busy not drinking. I knew it was getting close to my turn for karaoke. I called Aurini’s name. No response. I shook him. No response. I violently shook him while calling his name. He did not respond favorably. He grumbled and groaned before lifting his head.

“Dude, you have to wake up. I’m about to bring the house down.”

He pushed my arm away, and stood up. Apparently oblivious to where he was, he walked over to an empty table near us and shoved it aside causing a loud commotion. It just so happened to be in between songs so everybody turned to watch. He kicked away two chairs that remained in the way. Once he had cleared a sufficient space, he sat down on the floor, stretched his legs out, and leaned all the way back. Although Aurini had found a brief moment of peace as he shut his eyes, it sent the rest of the bar into a chaos. Most people laughed. One girl actually let out a worried shriek before asking if he was okay. The waitress and bartender came running over. I was standing over him shouting “SOMEBODY GET THIS MAN SOME WHISKEY… STAT!” Once the bartender realized Aurini was only trying to sleep, he told me that he was calling him a cab.

“Come on. He just needs a shot of whiskey.”

The bartender remained straight-face, “It’s either a cab or the cops.”

“Alright, I’ll get him out of here. Give me a couple of minutes.” The bartender and I bent down and propped Aurini to his feet. We sat him back down in his chair. He pushed everyone away and leaned back attempting to sleep.

I grabbed Aurini by the shoulder and pulled him close. “Brother, calm the fuck down. We’re getting kicked out… again. I’m minutes away from karaoke greatness. Just keep it together and we’ll get the hell out of here before the cops come.”

Aurini couldn’t process. “Wha.. .what?” he said, confused and angry.

“Let me make it simple. Don’t sleep. Sit still in your chair like a normal human being.”

Aurini’s eyes came into focus. His speech even lost its slur. “Sit in the chair?” he said loudly.

“Yeah.”

“How about this one?” He growled sitting in another empty chair at our table.

“No, this one.” I pointed back at the original chair with his jacket draped over it. I wanted him in smacking distance in case he passed out again.

Aurini stood up and walked to another table, swinging an empty chair over. He grabbed the chair’s arms and lifted it up to his ass and then slamming down into a seated position. “How about this one?” Before I could answer he repeated the act with another chair. “Or this one?” He bared his teeth, pupils vibrating. And again he bounced up, booting two more chairs over. “Or these?” He didn’t even sit in those two. He stomped further away and got two more chairs, sliding and ramming them into the giant clusterfuck of chairs around our table like he was in a shopping cart destruction derby. “OR THESE???” Wood cracked against wood and the beer in the pitcher sloshed back and forth.

I stood up, grabbed him, and tossed him down in his correct chair. He reached down into his leather jacket and pulled out a cigarette.

“Then at least give me a goddamn light,” he said holding the cigarette between his lips.

“You know I don’t have a light. And I think Di$e stole your lighter at the last bar. Besides you can’t smoke in here.”

“Well fuck,” he threw the cigarette into our pitcher of beer. “What the hell can I do?” I fished the cigarette out, filled up my beer and looked over to see Aurini had taken his army boots off. He put his feet up on the table. I pushed them off, lecturing sternly about my upcoming karaoke fame. I caught the bartender’s eye and he was pointing towards the door. I flashed him the “two more minutes” gesture and pushed Aurini feet off the table again. Finally we compromised and he put his feet on one of the many chairs. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and passed out again. The bartender walked over.

“Time to go.”

“Yessir. I’m just going to polish this half beer off and be on my way.”

Just then the female karaoke announcer, a thin black woman with dreadlocks, called into the microphone. “Griffin. Can we get Griffin to the stage?”

“Oh man,” I stood up walking away from the bartender, “that’s my cue. I’ve been waiting all night.” I pointed to Aurini who was fast asleep with his chin on his chest. “He’ll be fine there, and we’ll leave the second I’m off stage.”

I didn’t bother waiting for the bartender to answer. I walked up on stage and grabbed one of two microphones resting on a table. I held it up for the karaoke lady, “so I just sing, right?”

“You got it, honey,” she smiled and cued the music. “Give it up for Griiiiiiffin.”

There was some polite scattered applause, but not enough enthusiasm for my liking. “I can’t hear you! Come on, give it up for Griiiiiiiffin!” I shouted over the lead-in instrumental waving a hand in the air. A few people cheered louder, most ignored me completely. I winked at the karaoke lady. She mouthed “Good luck.” Fighting off the opening jitters, I belted out the first lines. It took me a few seconds to get the proper microphone-to-mouth distance – what can I say, it’s not a familiar gesture. Once I got the volume correct, I concentrated on tuning my voice.

And Holy Christ did I sound fucking awful.

Apparently when one is drunk enough that he’s slurring, it affects both speaking and singing. I stopped to laugh a few times, even considered walking off stage, but I am no quitter. I continued singing, trying to improve with each line. I made eye contact with random audience members to see if they’d at least give me a pity smile. Nothing. People looked stunned or irritated. I butchered the chorus and vocally raped the second verse. My moment was fading fast. I had to fall back on what I know best, I had to go to my “A” material. The instant Tom Morello’s guitar solo shrieked through the bar speakers, I resorted to the one bit of entertainment I knew I could count on: I held the microphone like a penis and air humped across the stage in tune with the music.

Thirty-five seconds feels like an eternity when you’re groin thrusting in front of a silent audience.

At the closest table, a dark haired man with a moustache was eating a steak sandwich. I know this because I watched him cut out a bite and put it in his mouth as I thrusted my microphone-dick through an open space between banister rails at the side of the stage . He looked me dead in the eye. Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, threw his cutlery down on his plate, stood up, and walked off. His face was so contorted in disgust I wondered if it was permanent. Panning my eyes across the rest of the patrons, I could see that everybody shared similar sentiments with the mustachioed man. Not one laughed. The karaoke lady looked like she was going to puke. In fact, the only person I saw that didn’t react as if I was telling dead baby jokes at a dead baby’s funeral was Aurini, and he was passed out.

When the solo ended, I finished up the rest of the song at an even louder volume. As the last notes faded out, I stayed up saying “thank you and good night” a few times until the karaoke lady cut my microphone. I walked passed the blur of upset, potentially scarred for life people and shook Aurini awake. “Get your boots on. We’ve over stayed our welcome.” He recognized the urgency in my voice and got his shit together in double time. I poured the rest of his beer into my glass. Aurini propped an unlit cigarette in his mouth. I signaled to him, he followed, and I stumbled out into the night, beer in hand.

The next morning at work I recounted to Aurini what happened over IM. His memories were disjointed at best. Past the second bar, he remembered nothing. When I was done filling in the details I said, “Look on your table. The empty beer glass should be sitting there.” It took him a minute, but he saw it.

A short while later, an email popped into my inbox from SubtleDig stating “Hey, wanna join our network?”

I wrote back, “You guys seem to have a great thing going over there. I’m already a fan. Sure, I’d love to come on board.”

And that, my friends, is the story of how I came to write for Subtle Dig.