The Gospel of the Font

Chapter 7

By the time we get off I85 and back into the University area, I've pretty much spilled everything to Tim. I've told him about the book, Allustar, the weird chick, my visions, my dreams and why he thought I was baked off my ass back in the motel room. With all the cards on the table for everyone to look at, Tim and I both come to the same conclusion.

We need alcohol.

Tim doesn't even bother going home first. The second we're off the interstate, he turns and makes his way to our favorite bar. It's this little hole-in-the-wall place we used to go to every Friday after our last class together. We have a lot of good memories in that bar: shooting pool, throwing darts, hitting on guys, fun times; although that four weeks I was dating Leslie he kept calling me a traitor. I sure wish this could be one of those fun times.

We pull into a space along the side of the road and Tim cuts the car off. He pulls the keys from the ignition as he opens the door.

I throw off my seat belt and step out of the car. I carelessly toss the book in my seat as I shut the door.

Tim looks over at me with a puzzled look. "Are you sure you want to just leave that out in the open like that?" he asks.

I glare at him with a raised eyebrow. "Tim, what did we just finish discussing?" I ask. "Do you not remember my little magic trick with the glove box a few minutes ago?"

Tim blushes a bit and looks away. "Yeah, you're right," he says.

"Come on," I say. "By the time we get inside that fucking thing will be sitting on our table."

"Faith! Tim!" shouts Brandon, the old bartender, as we walk through the door. An old, bell-covered Christmas decoration nailed over the door sounds our arrival.

Upon entry, our ears are filled with the sounds of shouting, pool racks breaking, glasses clanking, and a jukebox playing some old Green Day song. The air smells of smoke, alcohol, body odor, and shame. My sneakers have already found something questionable on the floor to become stuck to.

Goddamn, I love this place.

Tim and I make our way across the creaky floor and up to the bar. We slide out a couple of stools and sit. It's so nice to be somewhere familiar and inviting. Even the bartender here knows us by name.

"You two look like shit," Brandon says as he steps up. He's a rotund old guy with thinning, gray hair and green eyes. He's got a thick goatee and stubble everywhere else. "What's the matter?"

"Couldn't even begin to describe it," I say without looking up. I've got my elbows resting on the bar and I'm staring at my own lap. I'm so mentally exhausted that it's really starting to eat at me physically.

"What can I get for you?" he asks.

"Two bottles of Miller Lite and keep bringing more as long as you see me blinking," I reply. I'd brought a couple hundred dollars with me to Cairo in hopes of doing some souvenir shopping. If I'm not going to be loading up on Egyptian trinkets, then a bar tab sounds like the next best use for my funds.

"What for you then?" Brandon asks Tim.

I look over at Tim and notice that his forehead is on the bar. He looks about as bad as I do.

"Corona and a Midori sour," he says in a soft monotone.

"Fag," I reply with a smile.

Tim lightly punches me in the leg without lifting his head.

Brandon smiles. He's used to seeing this kind of back-and-forth with us and he seems relieved that whatever is bothering us hasn't impeded our sense of humor. He and his son Jason live in Walter's neighborhood. "Coming right up."