The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Four – The Bottle 5

abstract reads

Serial Fiction

 

These dirty streets inhaled millions of tourists only to exhale them back into the good warm world. They could go down on their list now and recharge their cameras. More pictures, they last longer than memory, especially after years of vodka. Thousands of pictures. Stored. Backed up. Evidence. Proof. No one can be trusted.

‘We ordered roasted rabbit. Inside of the head, after you eaten the brain, there is a bone in the shape of a human. We took that bone and put in on the bottom of a giant vase. Then we filled it with wine. Whoever finished the wine and got to the bone would be accompanied by great luck in his life.’

‘I don’t believe it. Where are the pictures!?’

Your head starts feeling like a twelve-angled rock. You try hard to prove that you had a good time. You are obliged to mention how much it cost you to have a good time. Exaggerate the price tag to add more weight to your good times. People are pathetic.

How do I know?

After I arrived in this great city with the Baker things got boring and static for a short while. I got locked up in a sterile cabinet. No visitations. I longed for home. The cellar with all the wine bottles and endless gossip, that is.
My prayers were in part answered for one never gets exactly what one wants. An old man found me. He was sifting casually through drawers and cabinets looking for me. He smiled at me. Held me like his first born. I wish I could have smiled back. He inserted me in a cushioned leather bag of great comfort and carried me away.
Next time I saw day light was in my new home. A rusty old public house with a Scottish proprietor. I really wished I could smile. To see a countryman after centuries is indescribable.

From what I overheard the landlord had helped this old man, the Baker’s grandfather, close some deal ages ago. The old man had searched for an appropriate gesture to repay his friend. Hence, I was incarnated as a gesture. Which is an honor and it doesn’t hurt.

Those two wise man were the first to sample true scotch. I took my first breath of air.

That was the pre-story of my new home. My point was that from the top shelf of this establishment I learned everything that is worth learning. I have stories to prove it. No pictures. For the simple reason that I can not hold a camera. If you don’t trust me have another drink.

I have heard it all.

From sterile wingless females looking for new tenants for their vacant natural cavities to fanatics carrying the statue of a saint, bare foot in the middle of the winter.

The general case is that most drink in order to feel something else but fear. Everybody strives to uncork their mind and spill their unshared thoughts into the good warm world. If nobody listens to them during the day, the drunks would at least pretend to listen at night.

I like to call it CFP or clairvoyant frivolous perplexity. It is a grammatically and logically sound expression, to answer your mild skeptic grin. I can see you rolling your eyes.

You could be smart, clever, witty, optimistic, adoptable and all the good stuff. If you don’t get a grip, CFP will engulf your dreams and suffocate them.

CFP means nothing. It’s a notion, reflection as if you are inside a cool tomato. You know it is red but you can’t see it because it’s dark inside. You enjoy the coolness. It’s like a nation that has a language consistent of a single word. A word that has a thousand meanings based on intonation. Only basic chat, no room for abstract thought. A nation that controls its subjects by emptying their minds and filling their bellies. A nation where being free means never to say sorry. A nation where the extra sauce is free.

Let’s lighten up. I will proceed to break it down good and proper.

Back to classifying the city dwellers.

Next in line would be the oddly shaped regulars whose will power had been depleted by bad luck. That is if you believe in such things as luck. Even though, I don’t have a heart I am inclined to believe that luck is an entity that requires a little push from its bearer.

In other words, if you want it, circle it.

Hot dog, ice cream, orange juice.

Do you know what I mean? Of course you do. Drunks are always furnished with expertise. What else they got. Piquant anecdotes full of engaging and provocative details. Like the brick joke.

There was once an old fisherman. He was sitting along the river with all his gear spread around. You would think that he was like any other fisherman if he did not have a brick on his head. He was masterful in balancing the brick, it was like a part of his body. And there she goes, a girl picking mushrooms along the river. She passes by the fisherman, greets him and asks him – ‘Hey old man, why do you have this brick on your head?’ The fisherman answers – ‘I will only tell you if you let me ‘you know’ (he clapped his palm against the hole of his fist)!’ The girl was taken aback – ‘Who do you take me for!’ And she moved on her way. Only a few mushrooms later, enough curiosity accumulated inside of her to go back. She did and she asked again – ‘Please fisherman, tell me!’ ‘You know the rules.’ – said the fisherman. Once again she moved on. But her mind was itching. So she considered that she would go back and find out. It’s only sex after all! She went back and she said – ‘OK!’ and boom (clap your palm against the hole of your fist) ‘Now tell me!’ – The mushroom girl said. The fisherman took an enjoyable puff on his cigarette and said – ‘I’ve been sitting on this river all day and I have not caught a single fish but you are the third girl I fucked because of that brick on my head!’

Or.

They often want to explain you the essence of life. Because drunks had figured it all out. They would have manifested their revelation to the world but they are too busy drinking and sharing it with other drunks serving as their editors before they have a draft worth copywriting.

The barman is so interested that he tries to drink himself deaf.

 

next: The Baker, the Butcher and the Brewer – The Bottle 6

previous chapter: The Baker, The Butcher and the Brewer, Part Four – The Bottle 4

first chapter: The Baker, the Butcher and the Brewer – The Baker 1

all chapters: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer

more by PETER ODEON

photograph by Josh Swift

 

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