Chapter 6: Natures Law
“Look at that piece of jail bait on TV.” Robert says taking a swig of beer and motioning at one of the big screens at the Stratford Bar. “It’s basically entrapment. They get these little teeny bopper hotties, put them in pigtails and half shirts and then trot that tight belly around. Course it is against the law to touch them till they are eighteen, they call us lecherous for even looking. But don’t tell me that every director and producer in Hollywood knows exactly what he is doing! They are all pimping big time.” Robert and I are drinking away another day with the usual drunks. Next to him is a man burning cigarettes, he doesn’t smoke them, just lights them and lets them burn away in the ashtray.
“Yeah,” I agree, “but fourteen will get you forty.”
“When did eighteen become a magic age? I say if they have boobs they should be legal!” He pauses to wave his hand in front of him trying to get a ghosts trail of cigarette smoke away from his face. The cigarette owner is slowly nodding off and waking up and nodding off again. He looks to be ancient but has the puffy face of ill health and overdoing it. A common trait with the patrons of the Stratford.
“I know some women who would never be legal.” I reply with a smile.
“Alright, eighteen, or a decent sized rack. But we are usurping nature’s law. It used to be that women in this country got married shortly after puberty. Hell, it is still that way in most countries. ‘Bout any third world country they are knocked up with a few kids by 20. Down in southern Missouri I met an older lady who had gotten married at fourteen. Course in the last thirty years we have managed to change society’s norms to the point where that is no longer acceptable.”
“Robert, do you want to be married again?”
“Hell no. I just want to know that on the off chance I bang a Girl Scout I am not going to jail.”
“Well, you might wanna get some roofies if you are planning on having any luck with anything but a bar fly.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks. We both look over to see the cigarette burner slowly slide out of his chair and collapse on the dirty floor. I look down at the bar, past the empty glasses, loose dollars and see that his cigarette has finally burned down, at least there is a bit less smoke in here now.
“Unless you are rich, famous, or a serious player, women have no interest in you. That is also natures law. The only guys out there that have it lining up for them like that are celebrities, and I don’t see you being featured on entertainment tonight.”
“All right you have a point.” He pauses, and his eyes shift to a different TV where George W. is fielding questions at a press conference. “Have you noticed that since the 1960’s when presidential debates became televised it has always been the best looking candidate that wins the election. I’m not saying that the best looking candidate wins their party’s nomination, but it is always the best looking guy who wins the general election.”
“Who was against who when this started?” He might have a point here that I hadn’t thought about.
“Nixon versus J.F.K.” he replies. “Nixon appeared old and tired, was also unshaven. Kennedy looked clean and fresh. Besides, it’s a no brainer. I aint gay but Kennedy was better looking than Nixon.”
“Nixon’s uh faggot,” the drunk yells from the floor, I didn’t realize he had been listening to us or was even capable of hearing. He is sort of on his back with one leg still propped onto the bar stool, like a cowboy thrown from the saddle with a foot stuck in the stirrup. Being drug by a horse, he holds on, trying to keep control and perhaps climb back on or break free.
“Who did L.B.J. go up against for the next election?” I ask, trying to remember my history, and ignoring the drunk.
“Only the greatest, smartest, candidate of the last 60 years. A man by the name of Barry Goldwater. A true visionary who could have done wonders for this country. Problem is he was uglier than L.B.J and that is pretty fuggly!”
“Goldwater’s uh faggot,” the drunk again yells from the floor, he has reached a zen state where his breathing has slowed and if he wasn’t yelling every so often I would assume he was dead. We both choose to ignore him.
“Who was in the next election?” I am really curious now cause he has been correct both times. I have vague memories of seeing Barry Goldwaters photo and do remember him looking pretty bad.
“L.B.J. decided not to run if I remember correctly, but I might be wrong. Next president was Nixon and he ran against Hubert Humphrey. Trust me, Humphrey is a train wreck when it comes to looks.” Robert paused to think. “Nixon got deposed, Ford took over. Carter beat Ford, Reagan beat Carter. Reagan, hell for his age was a handsome man, and that is why he was so popular. “
“Reagan’s uh faggot,” the drunk echoes himself. Like a broken record he is on a one track mind of hating everyone.
“So you are saying that George W. won the elections over John Kerry and Al Gore because he is better looking than either?” I ask.
“That is exactly what I am saying. George W. will go down as the worst public speaker to ever hold any office. Horrible foreign policy, horrible domestic policy, the country has fallen apart in the eight years he held office.” Robert pauses to suck down some more beer. “But none of that matters in an election. Somehow in our minds we want to be with the better looking candidate. We want to be associated with him, want him to be our leader.”
“I think George W. looks like a retarded monkey.” I reply.
“But Al Gore is uglier.” Robert answers, “He’s fat, going bald and appears to be constantly sweating. I’ll grant you George W. is no looker but he is just slightly better looking than Al Gore, which is also one of the reasons the election was so close.”
“According to your theory then Barrack H. Obama will be the next president?”
“He’s a shoe in. McCain has something growing on the side of his head and a comb-over. He is just worn down with age. Obama is younger, better looking and does give a good speech.”
We both pause expecting the drunk to comment on the sexual preferences of one of the candidates but he has gone beyond this realm, saying nothing and sleeping with his eyelids mostly covering his eyes.
“So what’s this have to do with you picking up jail bait?” I ask.
“Everything. Cause it’s an election constantly going on in every chicks mind. That election happens with every interaction, every glance, wink, brief encounter. That is your campaign as you try to get yourself elected to their bed.” Robert is getting worked up. “Now you can influence the election results by buying them drinks or trying to be someone you are not cause no presidential candidate ever really shows his true self to the public. The ultimate goal is to get elected to as many beds as you can.”
“You can always buy the election.” I tell him trying to crack a joke.
“I’ve bought the election several times.” Robert says with a grin, “and let me tell you, when you buy the election the constituents don’t fawn and rave over you. Hell, they mostly lay on their backs and don’t do a damn thing except keep track of the amount of time you have left in office.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Quit voting! I like this bar cause there aren’t any chicks in here at all. Only the waitresses and as a rule of thumb they hate everyone that ever walks into their bar.” Robert pauses to suck the last drop of beer out of his glass. As he pushes it away from him he continues, “I have tried working my magic in every way I can think of. Tried passing myself off as a nice guy, a half breed Miami spiritualist, as an intellectual, none of that worked. Now I am going back to my true self, a crazy drunken hillbilly.”
“That’s going to get you tons of chicks”
“I don’t care anymore, am tired of the game, if they can’t accept who I really am then we do not need to be together. If they expect me to wait around till they break up with their boyfriends they can go jum
p off a cliff. I have become omniscient with female thinking, and let me tell you there is nothing more devious or evil.”
We sat in silence for a bit, ordered another round of beers and Robert starts again, “If our ancestors could see what we have become they would disown us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t care what side of your heritage you wanna pick, American Indian, German or Welsh but 500 years ago your fathers ancestors were men. They worked hard, fought hard, drank hard. Hell, back then the strongest and bravest had all the women. Here we are, the strongest and bravest, and women want metro sexual guys who act gay. Not that there is anything wrong with being gay, according to our esteemed floor dwelling colleague many of our presidents were, but I see those metro guys and I just want to chop their heads off.”
“I gotta agree with you there,” I reply. One of the reasons I won’t go to most bars is the metro guys acting like fags.
“500 years. Have we progressed much? Most of us are unhappy, stressed about our daily lives, paying the bills, keeping up with the neighbors. What have we gained?”
“Well,” I reply “We have better health care. Nicer homes, better entertainment; TV, radio, the internet, think of the access to information we have that our ancestors didn’t. But you got a point. And I am not that sure modern medicine is all that great. The Witch Doctor in Africa was as good as the internist I am seeing. Plus with all this crap, and let me make myself very clear it is crap, we are no happier. Look at us, a nation of spoiled babies always crying for the next toy, the next bright shiny car to make us happy. Its CRAP. Now you and I and the people we hang with never bought into this philosophy, but we are the odd balls according to society. They don’t understand how we can be happy with so little.”
We pause for a while to look at the old drunk collapsed on the floor.
“You think that is going to be us someday?” Robert says, prodding him with his foot. “Drinking away our savings, lost and lonely, no family, only friends being the drunks at a bar?”
“I can think of worse things.” I reply as I order another beer.