I dig dark humor when stone-cold sober. Get me drunk and I’ll dance on the gallows and wedgie the poor sap swinging from the rope. “That’s messed up,” I said, which sounded witty in my mind, but simply matter of fact when spoken. “Fuck.” My exclamation point.

You’d think I’d just recited a poem by Rumi by the way she was looking at me. “I bet you’re a good father,” she said. I may have been drunk going on smashed but that still rang my bullshit bell.

“The fuck gives you that idea?”

She shrugged. “I’ve met lots of other ones.”

I waited for more, but that’s all she gave me. I took another drink and hardly tasted it. My tongue had been anesthetized. ‘Fortunate Son’ gave way to ‘Thorazine Shuffle’ by Gov’t Mule, the de-facto house band for the bar.

“Line up a couple shots here, Razz-O,” I said, wanting a change of taste. “Jamesons,” I specified. Caspian and I had consumed so much of the stuff we should be stockholders.

We slammed those, then two more. Then my bladder signaled the alarm – piss is imminent, proceed to the docking station immediately and prepare to unload. I slid off the stool and performed my own Thorazine Shuffle, staggering like a newborn fawn on ice as the booze rushed to my head.

“Buckle up, buttercup!” Razz heckled. Malia offered her arm for balance, and I used it to steady myself. The floor canted as I walked to the bathroom, sending me stumbling into the hallway wall. My shoulder crashed into a framed poster from the ’06 Wannee Festival, and cracked the glass. I heard Razz yell something from behind, but couldn’t make it out. Hurray for that, I think. The bar had become a cruise ship in high swells, forcing me to hold my arms out for balance. I pushed through the door and cast forward, stumbling until I hit the far wall. A good place to rest, I thought, placing my forehead against the cream tile. Nice and cool.

“Whoa, Nelly. All fucked up there good.” It sounded like the man from earlier. What is he, like the bathroom concierge?

“Nah,” I mumbled, peeling myself off the wall. Now I was on a tilt-a-whirl, could feel the earth spinning through space. Hurtling 20,000 miles per hour through the void. “I’m the rocket man,” I said, as though that made any sense. Then belted out the old Elton John tune. “Rocket Man!”