Letters from Mad Plato
Thursday, May 05, 2016
A NIGHT AT THE BEACH BAR WITH GREYHOUNDS AND EDGAR ALLAN POE
Spiderman never told me what he did to the guy who knocked me out.
Spiderman wasn’t his real name, but it matched his tall, lean and muscular body, and that’s what everyone called him.
“Don’t worry, I took care of him.”
“But what did you do?”
“You don’t want to know.”
And I didn’t.
I had been at this particular beach bar before, but I had always gone home before the sun went down.
I parked my gold, muffler-less ’64 Impala, walked to the open-air bar, sat down at a table, and started drinking.
I don’t remember what I was drinking.
It was probably beer with tomato juice or
I know, yuck.
It was a phase I was going through.
(For all of you grammarians, I know that I’ve broken one of your cardinal rules, and have ended a few sentences with a preposition.
I hope it doesn’t bring you too down.)
It was Saturday night, and early, so there weren’t too many people yet, but gradually the beach bar filled up.
After sitting alone for about an hour, a couple walked up and asked if they could sit down at my table, and I said
No, the problem would occur momentarily.
They told me that they raised and sold greyhounds.
Right after that I excused myself and went to the restroom.
The beer was talking, and I knew that I wanted to get home.
On my way back to the table I saw this guy with black hair and a curved nose sitting by himself at the semi-circular bar.
I thought to myself,
“He looks like Edgar Allan Poe.”
I must have taken too many looks, because it was he who came over and hit me.
It was a
on the right side of my head.
The punch knocked me unconscious.
When I woke up, a policeman was standing above me.
“Are you O.K.?”
“I think so. What happened?”
“Someone hit you and you passed out. Do you have a car?”
“Do you want me to give you a ride? You can leave your car here and pick it up tomorrow.”
“No. I can drive. Thanks.”
I drove home.
I had a bruise on my face.
I wondered how long I was
I forgot to ask anyone.
It was a few days later when I was sitting at the bar in
The Rose & Crown
that Spiderman walked in and told me that he had taken care of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.
I thanked him.
IT'S (STILL) ABOUT OIL AND
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