“How does a writer who drinks become a drunk who writes? In what way does an artist go so wildly off track yet continue to create?” – Kelly Boler
Silhouettes of faux banana trees line the walls, and shadows of banana leaves are painted near the ceiling. Outside, the winter winds rush wildly down Clinton Street, but here, in the Goddamn shade of a fucking fake banana tree, all is golden, warm, and glowing. A black and white movie plays on a flat-screen television behind me, something with Anthony Perkins in a bathrobe – but decidedly not ‘Psycho’.
Faint echoes of old Hollywood – divine decadence and delicious depravity – of glamour gone ridiculously wrong and twice-removed in this snowy upstate New York winter locale – and through it all the cockles of my heart remain warmed by the drink in my hand.
Older men greet each other with hearty handshakes and garrulous guffaws. This is how men of a certain age operate, and it’s charming to witness even as it’s going out of fashion. The days of the liquid lunch deal and, perhaps, of honor and a binding handshake, are quickly dissipating. I mourn that loss, as much as I mourn their inflexibility and their fading power.
The holidays are coming, and with them the requisite batch of parties and social events. It is enough to make me order another, and so I fortify myself against the onslaught.
{‘FireWater’ is a project from 2009 that has gone unposted until now.}
[See also Scene 1: Bourbon Street, New Orleans
Scene 2: College Ave, Ithaca, NY
Scene 3: Union Square, San Francisco
Scene 4: Boston & Provincetown
Scene 5: Braddock Park, Boston, MA
Scene 6: Times Square, New York
and Scene 7: Tapas & Tinis, Ogunquit, Maine.]
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