RAVE: The biggest bar lie I ever told, was told last night
I walk in, and find a space at the bar. There are two chairs, and I go to sit at one pretty much at random because, in this crowd, you either sit next to the creepy old guy, or the other creepy old guy. Ever get one of those Deliverance moments, when there's a song playing that you just know is foreshadowing something bad? Well, the nightmare song, for me, was Redneck Woman. I sit down, take my jacket off and set it in front of me at the bar.
He says, Hey dude move your jacket.
I'm sitting next to some random creepy gentleman, who is wearing a hat that says "GUIDO GARAGE." No, I'm not kidding. He appears to be older, maybe 40, and he has those "crazy eyes." The sort of expression not born out of alcohol, but out of genuinely being mental. I shift my jacket over a few inches to the right, away from him. It's late, and I'm frustrated and a bit angry because I'm out at this fucking bar at 2am. I look down the bar, catch the eye of the bartender, and ask her for a beer.
He turns away, says something to his friend. The word "faggot" may have come up, and i get the feeling that no matter who sat down at the bar, livestock included, they would've been a faggot. I tense up, knowing that things are about to turn bad, very quickly.
He says, WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU TO PUT YOUR FUCKING JACKET ON THE BAR?
He says, You think I'm fucking around?
I tell his friend, Tell your friend not to pick a fight tonight. She says, nothing, because Guido Garage has a hand up to her mouth. He says, don't you talk to my fucking woman. I ask him if I know him, he says, No, you don't. I ask him if he thinks i should give a fuck about his opinion of my jacket being on the bar. He says, No, you shouldn't, yet, and tosses my jacket on the floor behind me. I'm in the hole at a depth of maybe a dozen shots of whiskey, so I figure I can't possibly win a fight. The guy is bigger than I am, and is clearly a candidate for any number of prescription drugs.
I say, Motherfucker, because you always have to start out that way.
I say, Motherfucker, you think you can fuck with some fucking guy at a bar, because you think you know him? You know I just got out of fucking prison, motherfucker? You think the bullshit you're talking is any shit like what I got inside? In there maybe a motherfucker will fuckin stab me, and here at a bar the worst I gotta worry about is you'll try to fuckin beat me up. So if you're going to do it, hurry the fuck up, cuz i don't give a fuck anymore.
I'm actually a really nice guy. Yuppie, even tempered, big geek, and obviously I've never been to prison. However, I've been beaten up more than my fair share of times, and with a dozen shots of whiskey in me I'm not afraid of much. But this lie really suprised me, because it wasn't one of those lies you rehearse. I remember as I was saying it, I was rather proud of myself. I said, this sounds pretty convincing, if I do say so myself. You spend enough time on the 6 train between 125th and Grand Central and you'll figure out the speech pattern of someone who sounds like they don't give a damn.
The bartender looks scared. Guido Garage's companion looks scared. The rest of the bar looks excited, because after all, who doesn't want a fight at 2am? He asks me what the fuck I did time for. I say possession, and weapons 2. I said "weapons 2" because I heard that phrase in the movie Usual Suspects. I have absolutely no idea what this means. I tell him I was up for 6 months. I tell him this because, in the movie, Verbal Kint got 6 months for his weapons 2 charge. I tell him, The brothers fucked with me inside, too, and he's no fucking better.
I say, At least they only did it because they had nothing better to do.
I say, Do you even have a fucking job?
He tells me that he did a stretch in a prison, and tells me the name which I don't remember. He says he did three months for heroin distro. He asks me the name of my PO. Thank christ I know this means Parole Officer. I tell him the name of my 8th grade math teacher. He doesn't know who that is, and I tell him, of course you don't fuckin know him, my PO is in Connecticut. I ask him the name of his PO, and if he'd gotten him a decent fuckin job after he got out.
He looks nervous, now, and he glances away. I got him. He's lying, and it's fantastic. Our lies clashed, and mine won. If only he could remember the name of his 8th grade math teacher, we might still be battling. I laugh, and tell him that I know.
He says, Bullshit, motherfucker.
He says, You don't fuckin know me.
He says, Yeah well going to jail is for fucking pussies anyway, I don't need to go to fuckin jail when I've got my fuckin connections.
I look behind me. The gentleman behind me laughs. The lady he's with lowers her head and turns away shaking, and while she could be either laughing or crying, one would assume she's laughing. Guido Garage stands up quickly, knocking over his stool. He tells me that if I come into this bar again, than I better be packin, cuz he's not going to fuck around.
I say, How the fuck are you going to come up in here and try to intimidate me? You think the next time I see you I'm going to be scared? You think you're harder than the motherfuckers that fucked with me inside? I wasn't scared then, and there's no fuckin way I'll ever be scared in a fuckin bar.
He seems satisfied by this, and turns away. My adrenaline is rushing, and my heart is pushing the whiskey around my bloodstream at a hundred miles an hour. I don't motion to pick up my beer because I'm afraid he'll see that my hands are shaking. A bartender leans over and asks me if I want to call the cops. I know the bartender, and I've been in this bar a million times. He says, Get the fuck outta here, you went to jail? I smile at him and roll my eyes. I shake my head no.
I say Yeah man, I went to fuckin jail.