flash flash, an un-told story, and last call

17 Jan

We got in to the Wharf at last call. Three a.m. Strange scene. The place, no bigger than your dining room, paneled, stinking of vomit and day-old urine, was rocking with “Man of Constant Sorrow” blaring from the speakers. The few that were left over to drink from tape worm infested tap lines were bobbing their heads. In the corner, at the only table in the place, a man without an arm was stomping his feet and banging on the wooden surface with a red fist.
—Remind me to tell you the story of Hemingway, Capote, and George Plimpton in Havana who went to witness an execution by firing squad.
The music was blaring. The man without an arm had climbed up on the table and was stomping his feet. His beer spilled with every violent move.
—Hemingway, Capote, and Plimpton. In Havana. Hemingway nearly punched Capote.
The man without an arm sang: I am the man, of constant sorrow…
—Get us a drink will you?
The barkeep screamed: last call fellas, what’s yours?
We ordered.
—Some leftover happy hour food behind you, the barkeep yelled. —Shrimp quesadilla, fried bread…
…I am the Man…
—What’s that?
—I got a story for you. For later.
The place was nearly moving off the foundation. The man without an arm was sweating and salivating. We drank cheap ale from a nearly empty tap.
—I love stories. You tell the best ones.
…of Constant Sorrow…


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