Wish Me Luck

A submission for Modern Drunkard Magazine that I hope they take the bite. If not, I hope you enjoy.

So you're a regular now..........

You sit at your table with your beer in your grasp watching a TV with no sound. People come out of left field to shake your hand or pat your back to engage in two sentence conversations. The waitress with the pretty smile and the nice ass doesn't even have to ask what the next round is going to be. You know all the songs on the jukebox and can probably predict the next one by just watching the people coming in. The bartender knows your name and knows that Fridays you like to get set up with a Beam and Coke. You are a regular.

Now calm down. Relax. Take it easy. Have a drink. This is a good thing. The realization for anyone doesn’t come easy. It is really hard for someone who doesn’t think they are an alcoholic to view these symptoms without a twitch of denial. To hell with that. You should embrace it. Now you are not only a drunk but also part of elite band of the hardcore in the drinking scene.

Those nights of rampaging with your friends from bar to bar like a pack of ravenous Vikings are winding down. You’re getting older. Those sugary, overpriced rum and cokes from a sweaty bartender in some shitty dance club are not that appealing anymore. You need a place to call your own. You are thinking of settling down to some hole in the wall where everyone knows your name, and if you are lucky, you already found it.

You wouldn’t be a regular with out being some sort of drunk first and being part of this elite crew holds its advantages. You may as well be getting your alcohol from a solid gold chariot driven by Miss February herself. No more waiting in line behind the fat guy asking if that new low carb beer will help his figure. No more waiting squeezing between the circle jerking college kids. No more having the very attractive but very stupid lady ranting about not enough cherries in her drink. You, good sir, have the golden ticket to priority.

And with that priority, you can hold your head a little higher too. You are a made man. You are the king conversationalist with the two sentence greetings. Feel proud that you are putting the owners kids through medical school, because you are that much of a good guy. Wear that drunken smile as you tap your comrade’s mugs in unison to that sweet sound of coming to your new home.

Now you see every once in a while drunken businessman who spills his martini announcing drinks all around, or that guy who gets you a round for just sitting next to him listening to him ramble about his shitty wife. Being a regular means you see these guys all the time. Free booze is never a bad thing.

Now there are some things you should be aware when being one of the natives. There are no complicated handshakes or decoder rings, but there are a few things to watch out for. These I believe are crucial to knowing in this brave new world.

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT hit on the bar staff. This is a little tempting when you see that same pretty girl walking over with what you love best or when the beer goggles start kicking turning that flabby, stinking, wildebeest wiping the tables with the same dirty rag into Victoria Silvstedt. It’s not worth it. You fuck up in this and you are now marked. Word will spread around the campfire and it could result in a loss of that coveted line to the front of the bar. Instead, become the shark. If you need that easy lay, make your way to the new faces. You know the faces of the group of girls that have never stopped by looking for a night of unwinding on seven and sevens. As the old adage goes, “Don’t shit where you eat.”

Also, if you miss a few days or even a week it’s like missing days in elementary school. Everyone wonders where the fuck you have been. “Were you sick?” “Everything okay?” “Someone die?” Or the more common, “Where the fuck have you been?” There is always some need to create some fantastic story like, “I was in the hospital with mono.” Or “My sister’s brother in law’s cousin’s grandmother just passed away.”

These things are all trivial in the long run. You have now found your little hole in the wall. You are sitting between Norm and Cliff waiting for Sam to shut up and get you a beer. You are wondering in your booth why Moe keeps falling for prank phone calls while you sip on Duff. You are dragging Peter out of the Drunken Clam. You are sitting in a chair lined with gold. Drinks all around.