Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Crash Murphy has a drink.

When the Jamesons bottle opens, I hang up the car keys, period.

There is, however, an exception and that's the drive home from Philly. I generally have a single drink, and ONLY a single drink. Usually it's about halfway home.

When I buy my coming home jug, I usually snag a miniature and about halfway home, I down it for medicinal purposes. After a couple of weeks of having generators running 24/7, one good belt takes the internal vibration out of me.

I didn't get the miniature when I left Philly, thinking I'd just have one when I got home.

Now, I am in the Miata, top down and it started getting a tad chilly last night so it was leather jacket and scarf time. Later on it became helmet and goggles time, so I am now dressed ala Crash Murphy and I could use my medicinal dallop, as between the chill and the past 2 weeks have left me internally vibrating.

Now, I'm going through the backroads and I am in some jerkwater town around 11 pm and I spotted an open ginmill on the opposite side of the deserted main street. I whipped a U-turn and planted the Miata right smack dab in the parkinng space just outside the door.

Crash Murphy walked into the bar and there were half a dozen patrons, a couple of beat up looking women and four or five male bar flies that looked a little rough.

I walked stright up to the bar, put my money on the bar and ordered a snort of bourbon. I took a sip off the top, knocked it back and headed out the door. All eyes were on me like I was some kind of Old West gunfighter passing through.

Someone opened the door after me and looked as I got into the Miata. He said something to me, and I didn't hear it so I simply said, "Pardon me, I didn't hear you."

He looked a little scared and said, "I din't say nuffin'" and closed the door.

I lit the Miata off and whipped another U turn and continued my pilgramage home.

Oh, to have been Clint Eastwood for five minutes.

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