Drunken Boxcars

by on March 30, 2024 :: 0 comments

photo "After Dinner Drink Treat" by Tyler Malone

Dear Sir Lancelot:

When that Brett Kavanaugh dude told me he likes beer, he became my Catholic beer bro. And whiskey. You know: Wherever two or three are swigging a round, there’s always a fifth. But seriously, it’s always been beer for me. Remember? The afternoon I got drunk and found Jesus. And the true meaning of pontification. And the spins. But no problem, goblin.

When you’re drunk off your ass, the TV starts talking to you. That’s what I think, but I don’t know how that shit works, maybe osmosis, like, when you’re hitting on the idiot box and become a Supreme Court Justice in the privacy of your own den. You learn all kinds of crap just soaking that excrement up. You hear “Supreme Court Justice likes beer,” and suddenly, when you also hear he’s a Catholic, you realize that not only do all Catholics like all the beers but that all Catholics are entitled to become Supreme Court Justices because all Catholics like all the beers. Indeed. All the beers. And justice. The justice of all the beers.

Imagine this TV osmosis as a transmission from the beyond: Straight to your room from The Temple of Doom.

Believe. Beer makes one wise.

So. Got plastered one night while watching COPS and carved my initials on my coffee table. Whoops. I covered that with a book of literary criticism from the Deep Readers Club of America, but somehow the pages of the book began to stick together.

Literacy is literary, right? Dude. Functional literary or dysfunctional illiteracy = same difference. Man. I love playing with the words and shit. Stick together, pages!

Almost spit out my beer just now.

Being anti-war, I’ve lined my dead soldiers on the coffee table until I’ve gotten an entire downtown panorama, completely made of tin soldiers. Shiny round boxes. Just like Rome.

Ha. Somebody said soldiers.

My dad always called me a little soldier every time I emptied the trash. Mysterious, eh? One time some bitch called me a brick. Thick as a brick? No, “Mick Jagger didn’t write that song.”

But I do like the Tull. One time, I told the lady on the toll road that she was taking a Tull. She didn’t get it. Locomotive Beer Breath. Great song. Fucking chicks while blind.

No biggie. I dig it when Ian Anderson snorts while doing a solo. He sounds like a flute-playing pig. Beam me up, Scotty.

The thing I like about being relocated by some beverage is that it increases my eloquence. Some crazy junior high school counselor asked me if I felt repressed because I was drunk in seventh grade. What the fuck does that mean? I’m as rational as Spock.

Fascinating, Cap’n.

There was a time…long in the past…when I got drunk…at a rock festival…on the beach…I’d wander…from campfire…to campfire…asking girls to help me…then I looked up…and all the campfires…looked like the star-spangled banner…then stopped…because that was the ocean….

Or the time I landed in a brothel on Halloween night. Groovy.

The time I called 911 because a pro-football cheerleader wouldn’t go out with me. Good times.

Once, when I got blasted and sat there telling my best friend he was possessed by Satan. For three hours straight. Over and over again.

Or the time some heroin addict wanted to kill me in a bar because I was laughing at the plywood walls of the men’s room.

Maybe the time I found a Coors beer can that was sealed–but empty. I wrote to Coors HQ and demanded a case of beer. No response. One flatline of a company president.

Drinking 3.2 ABV beer all night long and angry about it because it has no clout. But finishing it off because, fuck, I bought the shit.

One time, not long ago, I sat by the train trestle and watched the boxcars go by. Like days, they go by. One just like the last one. The train that goes on for, like, 68 years, dude. Then no train.

Before I finished the 12, I got to thinking of some acrobat getting catapulted at a boxcar that’s open ‘cause of its doors. He could get a big spring, and when the train came by, he could launch himself at the train on television and fly right through the boxcar and then get into the Guinness Book of World Records for most astounding leap through a boxcar.

If he did it drunk: extra points.

That’s me. An acrobat of getting launched. The kinda guy who gets knocked-up on Nyquil because he’s broke and it’s in the medicine cabinet. My quill is Nyquil. I’m a drunken shit-wit.

Sir! I am writing you this letter because you got Avalon all wrong. No, Lance, it’s not a Roxy Music album; it’s a place. A special place where all of it is magic. Stuff makes sense, and then you stuff it all up in there, only to recoil, find magic again, and then you die.

We ought to get plowed together, Sir Lancelot. You should read yourself drunk sometime. You end with your lance poking through the head of a giant pig at the end of the rainbow. I did that once. Then put it in my journal immediately.

As I sit here, recounting my lifetime as a master of alternate reality, I find myself writing letters to mythical figures like you (and Arthur) (maybe Guinevere on a bad day) in hopes of joining them in Asgard or Valhalla or Brigadoon. Oh right. Camelot.

My life went nowhere last week. Tomorrow is gonna be nowhere too. If there is a plot here, the plot is no plot at all but the one plotting against me. At the end of Happy Hour.

editors note:

It’s easy to not see the world as it is. All the people, their actions, their histories, it can all be lost to liquid. ~ Tyler Malone

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