Notes From a Dive Bar XX

I meet a man on the road to A.A.

He asks for a Zombie.
You're looking at it, I say.
How about a Screwdriver?
Yes, and soon he owns a loose tongue, badmouthing.
A White Russian, then a Black Russian, checkmate.

Shaken, not stirred, he says, must like Hollywood films. And I'm as handsome as James Bond, so he says, I guess it's Martini-time for both of us. Plop the olive, break the ice, I'll be Sean Connery, he be Jaws..

I had a friend who drank 14 Hurricanes, he says, and then he stabbed a man, and was stabbed himself, and died in the street in a pond of blood, so be careful what you wish for.

But this turned out not to be such a good conversation starter.

One can always drink alone, I say
Then one doesn't drink at all. But still reaches beneath the kitchen sink looking for a bottle. But there is only bleach.
You should put the brakes on drinking? I recommend.
If he were a car, a warning light on the dash --

DANGER -- Skidding occurs when you Drink Six every night.
No seat belt will save you.
And the airbag called your beer belly don't work neither.
Slam!