The man sat at the bar. He was not waiting for anyone, no one was waiting for him. The bartender asked him no questions, the only thing the man asked for all night was matches for his cigars, and his particular poison, cranberry and vodka.
The drink was funny to the man; he, as a younger man, repeatedly swore that he would never drink a cranberry and vodka, his reason being that if he had ever had it, he would like it too much and drink too much, causing unwanted regurgitation. That reasoning was left over from his college days when his drinking had been much heavier, not that he didn’t like to drink now, but it was a different kind of drinking. His reason being that he liked cranberry juice too much, he actually used it as a hangover relief – cold, crisp and full of vitamin C. so he figured that if he drank too much of it, the mere idea of cranberry juice might nauseate him.
But, like so many of his personal rules, he broke his promise to himself, and, like he figured, he loved it. But he had yet to drink too much of it, and the cigars were lovely. So he drank, and smoked, and drank and smoked, and thought of increasingly sillier things.
Things like the idea he had for a short story, a story of gross misunderstanding, a story about a society that fears change, and throughout the whole story the inhabitants of this civilization are all scared to let on that although this is this overwhelming fear of change, they all secretly loved change. They all secretly craved change, and the big payoff of the story was that all this hidden change bursts loose upon the streets directly after a gigantic earthquake. He hadn’t quite figured out what happened to the culture after the change pours forth into the streets, but he knew it was the downfall of that society. He wanted to work into the story: them rebuilding a society where they openly love change and now the inhabitants all despise those little paper coin rollers. A time of change, perhaps, is the title?
Of course, this story is much m ore amusing to a man who is making it up, and consuming cran n’ voddies and smoking hearty Cuban seed cigars.
The drink was funny to the man; he, as a younger man, repeatedly swore that he would never drink a cranberry and vodka, his reason being that if he had ever had it, he would like it too much and drink too much, causing unwanted regurgitation. That reasoning was left over from his college days when his drinking had been much heavier, not that he didn’t like to drink now, but it was a different kind of drinking. His reason being that he liked cranberry juice too much, he actually used it as a hangover relief – cold, crisp and full of vitamin C. so he figured that if he drank too much of it, the mere idea of cranberry juice might nauseate him.
But, like so many of his personal rules, he broke his promise to himself, and, like he figured, he loved it. But he had yet to drink too much of it, and the cigars were lovely. So he drank, and smoked, and drank and smoked, and thought of increasingly sillier things.
Things like the idea he had for a short story, a story of gross misunderstanding, a story about a society that fears change, and throughout the whole story the inhabitants of this civilization are all scared to let on that although this is this overwhelming fear of change, they all secretly loved change. They all secretly craved change, and the big payoff of the story was that all this hidden change bursts loose upon the streets directly after a gigantic earthquake. He hadn’t quite figured out what happened to the culture after the change pours forth into the streets, but he knew it was the downfall of that society. He wanted to work into the story: them rebuilding a society where they openly love change and now the inhabitants all despise those little paper coin rollers. A time of change, perhaps, is the title?
Of course, this story is much m ore amusing to a man who is making it up, and consuming cran n’ voddies and smoking hearty Cuban seed cigars.
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