Derringer

That afternoon, Paul breaks his arm in a
Magazine Street car crash involving him
and a stolen Dodge that hits and continues
to run from the NOPD patrol cars
in chase. “Story of my fucking life,”
he thinks, looking at his limp appendage.

That night, he’s back behind the bar, limping
when it’s his arm broke, not his leg. “It’s all
connected,” Paul explains to the impatient
drunk who’d complained. “Maybe if you’d gone to
the hospital,” the drunk says, “had it set.”
Paul pulls a derringer from his makeshift

sling, point blanks it at the drunk’s head. “How ‘bout
I send you,” he growls. The drunk says, “With that?”

**

Here You Come Again

The bet is he’ll drink every beer backwards
alphabetically. His friend isn’t
biting. “They serve Dixie and Bud,” the friend
says. “You in or not?” he asks. “Not. Give me

a real bet, I’ll bet,” the friend says. On
Letterman Dolly Parton sings “Here You
Come Again.” He says, “From the halls of big
bazoomas.” The friend says, “To the shores of

Triple-E.” “Not bad,” they agree, clicking
bottles. Couple hours later he says,
“What if I drink them forwards?” The friend says

there’s no difference. “There’s a difference,” he says,
and drops it. The friend works an eight-to-five.
He leaves before six to get some sleep.

**

A Date with Lefty

Emmet orders a draft. Katherine points out
that he’s already got one. He ignores
her, his second arrives, and he whispers
into his left hand, smiling. “Emmet, what

the fuck you doing?” Katherine says, but he
shushes her, sets his hand onto the bar
and starts pouring beer into the curled fist.
Katherine takes her drink and slides over one

stool. “You don’t make sense, nigger,” Katherine says,
“spilling that shit all over. Then who you
gonna aks to buy you one when all your

money gone, me?” Through laughter Emmet says,
“I’m just trying to get my date drunk,” and
Katherine holds him till he can stop laughing.

**

The Dreams

For his third drunk of the day Paul switches to
vodka. It gives a cleaner pain next morning,
a sweeter blood in his puke. The vodka
dreams, though, they’d become a problem—

like his daughter in the Marines, for Christ’s
sake, just like her old man. Last time he
spoke to her was the last time, whenever
that was. And his son – well, he was OK

up till the accident. Mezcal drowns those
ghosts but it sizzles his ulcers like clams
in a wok. “Someone play a god damn sad

song,” he shouts at the tables where no
one sits. The bargirl slides him a quarter.
“Mezcal?” she asks, like that’s gonna help.