The montage I'm penciling is a mix of artstyles, Al Columbia & Keith Giffen. Mounted on a massive floppy expanse of posterboard. It's late afternoon and I've chosen to finish the thing at the Highlander, so I wrangle it in and flop it down on an open table toward the front. No-one's seen me in years, and being sober, naturally no-one recognizes me. I pencil a while, taking extra pains at the margins, as some kid idles 'round, attempting to fiddle with my work when-ever he thinks I'm not watching, just for jolly. But I'm vigilant; calmly I erase all his sabotage and keep at it. Going to get it right this time.
The details are precisely my jam: mohawked punks in white riding pants w/ black stripes wearing comically oversize fur coats, large brass costume jewelry chains like cape clasps dangling from every lapel. One punk owns a dog and the angle I've chosen for the scruffy animal is an absolute bastard.
The poster board has a layer of newsprint which snags every time I try to erase, but I soldier on, beatifically, unflappably determined. Everything must be correct. The kid's impressed with my imperturbability, so when I step away from the table and tell him to guard my work I know he will. He stands to the left of the table, studying my lines as I move toward the back bar.
One of the former bartenders, Kelley, is in a wheelchair, straining trying to shift a wireframe tray; she nearly drops it as I pass but the cumbersome load miraculously lands rightside up, every bowl cantering in place. I wave and she beams with a shock of recognition, giving me a thumbs-up. I move on.
Stepping into the hall encounter Allie chatting up a completely unshaven, gray-bearded Darb. Realizing the length of my hair obscures my identity I say hi. Without thinking she launches her right hand to my throat, mock-strangling me. The action's automatic, for comedic effect, borne of a decade or more being employed here. I recognize it for what it is, but still. Her exit's mechanical, like she's on a track, out the door before I can react. Patrons filing toward the toilets wonder at the scene. Darb smiles and shrugs. I'm left pointing after, exasperated.
"Oy," I begin, "not cool!" And follow. At bar's narrow end, beside the handwritten sign declaring Ass Funnel, Allie recognizes me at last. "Al, you remember the first time you did that shit?" Thrown, not remembering, she answers, "No..."
"It was brunch, I was barbacking, and you felt like horsing around. Cornered me, pretending to throw a punch." Before she has a chance to answer I throw my arms around her in a bear-hug and whisper in her ear: "You meant no harm. But my earliest memories of my father are of being regularly throttled."
Releasing the hug I step back, all benevolence. "Jesus Christ," she breathes, wide-eyed. I smile, patting her tattooed shoulder, turning back to my table. I see the kid still there, guarding my art.
Just like that I'm one hundred percent conscious. Puffy-eyed, rise to write it out.
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