She reminded me of Esmerelda Villalobos. Even in dim light, she had haunting pretty eyes. Her voice had such a sexy timbre. It was a Lyft ride from one brewery to another. And we mused on the state of the world and the fundamental decline of civics. I’d catch glimpses of her deep brown Latina eyes in the rear view mirror. It only takes about 8 seconds to fall in love or at least infatuation. I was deeply smitten by her as she maneuvered the vehicle thru Ashville streets and got to Wicked Weed Brewing. Destination now arrived.
A jaded old bard pounds a shot of J.D. and mocks an idealistic young troubadour. “So just how many beers must one man drink before he’s allowed to pass out?” The bartender chuckles at the joke. The young troubadour debates if Jesus will ever forgive these sins. Loose leaf papers holding his poems gets blown away in the wind. With a soul deader than a dead Christmas tree, the jaded old bard orders another beer and another shot. The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour. After all, poetry only happens when nothing else can. The sooner this kid learns the ways of the world the better. The young troubadour claims everyone gets stoned so he can abide. He pulls up a stool and throws down the shot. Old poet says “Don’t try.”
The bar’s empty but they’re open. I manage to get a beer and look around at the exotic décor. It’s a mix of new age Asian and early dive. I learn they have a city wide special that entails a PBR pounder and a shot of Maker’s Mark. They also do a variation that includes a can of Tecaté with a shot of tequilla.
It’s that point when you have to make a decision and you don’t want a reputation for always erring on the side of caution. This is the point where the evening many get hazy. Will I even make it home alive.
A pounder of beer
chasing down high grade whiskey
the sun is fading fast
I talk with the bartender who reveals she is a lovely mix of Latina and Asian. She’s wearing a Kurt Cobain T-shirt. I ask her if she was even alive when Cobain played. She was 5 years old when Cobain died. Fair enough, Jim Morrison died 2 days before my 5 birthday. We talk about music and the overworked air conditioner. An old man crushing hard ends up tossing down 3 citywides before realizing the need to catch a train back home
