He talks like he's some kind of analyst in the Sigmund Freud vein, lie down and let me look inside your underwear. For that's the drive for everything, he claims, talking to his pal fondling the mouth on a bottle of Corona. There's a dead lime floating in the bubbles. I crushed it hard with my finger and thumb, and slipped it in.
He's showing off, some guff about the Superego, the subconscious as speech, and I'm getting ready to express myself in the language of exclusion -- Get the f*** out! Not because I am averse to the Freudian couch. Indeed, many a verbal slip has flopped down in this dive. Not to mention mother being connected to f*****. And this guy is classifying himself in that rude and vulgar term. He's facing banishment for something deeply egregious -- he stole a cherry from the fruit tray, popped it, snapped the stem and threw it over the bar; the great boundary that divides consciousness between the server and the served.
Does he not know that the reason many bars have mirrors facing the customers is not for the bartenders to check their devastatingly handsome and beautiful egos but to catch the violator involved in all kinds of acts that they imagine go undetected when backs are turned? To think he believed his naughtiness would not be discovered by Big Daddy i.e ME.
I walk over. I pick up the squashed cherry, dangling impotent from its stem. You've been a very naughty boy. You killed this f****** cherry, I say. And then you tried to bury your guilt by throwing it into my territory, where I am forced down to pick it up, at risk of pulling a muscle in my back, knocking me off work for weeks to suffer the slings and arrows of economic misfortune. So now I will have to clench my fist and circumvent your raging Oedipal desire to kill Papa...
And he left. Psycho-analyzed.