I had a few hard drinks at the One Lucky and blended into nothingness. My bar stool gave out from under me, and here's what I remember: dead black eyes and the voice of Zigman Zibanski.
"Tortelli, Tortelli! Ya wake up." he cried in his old world accent.
A rush of ice water fell onto my face. Zigman lifted me up and placed the bar stool under me. The bartender, 'Beer Mugs' Moran poured a cup of black coffee. Otherwise he left us alone.
I knew I drank too much, which was unusual for me. I felt bad for Zigman who had a prediliction for worry and chasing after woman who wanted nothing to do with him. He drank himself too often into a regretful depression.
"Ya, drink too much, Tortelli," he said. "You no want to end up like me."
I stated with a slurred speech that wouldn't happen. This was just one of those nights. My head would hurt tomorrow, maybe for a few days, which would be reason enough not to turn me into a drunk. I'd be better off mostly posting blogs, I told him. This reassured Zigman. Which suited me just fine.
Poetry Pantry #359
1 hour ago