“…he’s such an idiot. He said he was from Kansas City, KANSAS, and so I say to him ‘why do you say KANSAS. What the hell other state would it be in?’”
“Missouri.” Lenny Watts said without turning from a position on his bar stool staring straight over the bar to spot of light illuminated on the caramel colored booze.
“What?” The perky peroxide blond said turning away from her bikini-clad Algonquin Round Table.
“Missouri. There’s a Kansas City, Missouri in… Missouri.”
“You’re a drunk.”
“That I am, and worse – but I’m geographically literate.”
“Don’t talk to me, you drunk.”
“Ahh, A witty rejoinder. Listen, I was just trying to keep you from repetitively telling that story and looking like a progressively bigger horse’s ass every time you do. The next time you might be keeping brighter company.”
The bikini team left the dim tiki-hut onto the bright beach in a collective huff. There was a time when Lenny would have been filled with remorse, both guilt for having offended the girls and regret for driving the svelte young team of beauties off. There were advantages to being a crazy drunk. It was a simple life. He would forget the whole thing, and what did it matter if he didn’t. In his old life, everything mattered, now nothing did.