Spectacles

I fix my glasses.
Normally I wear contacts, but during the long nights glasses can be better.
I hate wearing them. The bridge pinches my nose, the arms chafe my ears.
But they do give me a Clark Kent look, and women like a guy who looks smart.
He's driving, yearning for a drink. "Haven't had one since Monday," he says, nothing more than a career alcoholic. He makes you realize your morals haven't slipped that much. A bit crazy. Lives too hard. And only tolerable in small doses. But his conversation is good and his philosophies make sense and, in this town, that's really all you can ask for.
We stop at a bar called the Desert, or Dessert, I don't get a good look at the name, but it makes me remember of a place I went to called the Oasis.
The Oasis was in the middle of a forest in Germany, and you went there to get drunk. Really drunk. An American military bar, for soldiers back from down range on R&R, drunks who hadn't drank for some time, so typically things got out of hand quickly. When I left the Oasis someone was on the verge of beating another's head in with a bar stool.
The Desert isn't that kind of place.
There's a pool table in the middle and a blonde and a brunette playing when we walk in, each with a beer.
They stare at us like vampires.
Behind my lenses my eyes scan their curves like a Terminator. The brunette whispers in the other's ear, their chests rubbing close together.
I order beer, wait for the foam to ebb and they stare at me, the blonde with a shirt too small for her upper body that's more angled than the corners of the billiard table, the brunette with eyes that make you wonder if you're already drunk as she looks away from me, exposing her already exposed back in her tank top, a strap sagging as she leans over, aiming, positioning to get a stripe in the center pocket, arching for the perfect balance to avoid a scratch.
I think how great it would be to kiss up and down her bare back, the sound of cashing in -- "$", "$", "$", "$" -- ka-chinging with every touch.
The Desert is a bad place to be when you're thirsty. And I sip.
Purple cigarette smoke spirals from an ash tray beside me, and he asks if I want one.
"I don't think I'll go to church tomorrow," he says.
He's just come back from New Orleans and says it's really cleaned up since Katrina took care of it. I wonder if what they say is right, that God really wanted to wash all the city's sin away. I don't say it. It doesn't make sense, but neither did the Great Flood. And all of a sudden I'm flooded with a nervousness in thinking about it because God doesn't like you questioning him.
I wonder why God made me a journalist.
"I'm getting high and going to see my girlfriend," he says. "Get some."
I scratch my neck, a nervous tick, pry my eyes away from the vampires.
"You live a life," I say. "All sex and all weed."
"I don't think it's all about sex and buying weed," he says. "But it feels good. Feels so good."
I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
One of the vampires walks past, the one with the vertigo eyes, and she brushes my arm.
I wish she wouldn't fuck with my feelings. The beer doesn't help calm any part of me down.
I was on Facebook earlier and a girl wrote on my wall describing my life as an alcohol-induced sex rave. I don't understand what that exactly means, but, in contemplating it, I wondered if I was OK with my life being like that. The easy answer was yes. If only what she wrote was true. And I wonder if I give the wrong impression to people.
Impressionist paintings were really good. They made you think what you wanted to think, feel what you wanted to feel, see what you wanted to see. Not like that Baroque garbage.
The other vampire is bent over with the cue stick.
My glasses fog up in the humid Desert and I order a chocolate milk with hopes I'll get a sweetness overload. Like a cold shower.
We sit.
A band starts to play. They play good music. The vampires dance. Slowly. Intoxicating. I wonder what it would be like if they bit my neck.
"I haven't felt as boring as I've felt today," he lights another of his purple cigarettes, not a typical cigarette. "I kind of want to let you know. Do you think I'm getting too old?"
I see he's buzzed. "No. There's still some kid in you."
"I got to go see my girlfriend. She said something about bringing something. Fuck, I keep losing my focus," he takes a drag, exhales, his eyes pounding with the bass, captured by the vampires' gaze. "I need to let you know this is a fantastic guitar rift that they're putting together. Great song. My mind feels like it's in Texas right now, you know? OK, listen. Get these girls over here. But don't let them talk. I don't want to hear another thoughtless bitch talk. I'm reading this book with only one female character. Fantastic. You should read it. I read too much. Does that make me too old?"
"I read too much."
"OK."
"What?"
"Don't let them say thoughtless things?"
"Do you really want me to get those girls over here?"
"No. I'm blunted, but I'm driving anyways."
"What?"
"What were you saying?"
"Got to see your girlfriend?"
"It's our anniversary, so yes."
"What did you get her?"
"Isn't the relationship enough?"
"I guess."
"No. Wrong answer. So I bought her some sun glasses that she's wanted. Hopefully they fit."
I fix my glasses. Without them I'm blind.
I'm thankful for corrective lenses, but they really take the nature out of life.
If God had wanted me to see the fat girl dancing with a bar stool in the corner, right past the vampires, he wouldn't have hindered my visual capabilities.
"You want a ride anywhere?" He asks, standing.
"I'll text my roommate. Thanks."
"The one who beat you up the other day?"
"He had his hand around my neck when he was drunk. He never beat me up."
"Not that you'll say. I want you to know anyways," he puts his hand on my thigh. "That I've all ways thought you were soft."
My roommate picks me up at a quarter past the bus stop, shortly around midnight.
Rock and roll plays loud and his windows are open to de-fog the windows.
Streetlights are flashing green, orange and red and I can't hear what he said, what he's saying -- not over the music. I catch a glimpse of myself in the side view mirror. My glasses, the lenses, shimmer in the street light and I can't see my eyes. It's not so bad that I can't make contact with myself.
Just means I can't see the spectacles.