I've been thinking
about Colorado a lot lately. The cold, the bitter distance, the
ambiguity. I didn't necessarily retreat on a whim, but the escape was
meaningful and with certain purpose. I had reached my worst here, and
relished the chance to reflect within some far away opportunity.
Darkened seasons changed as albums of gothic folk poured over symbolic
walks down snowy drives and trans-vaginal interstates of spoiled lives.
That sentence means nothing, but so do the majority of our investments, so lighten up, fuckers.
I remember my brief stint at Squirrel's, a drunken lodge of regulars and irregulars that all shared a common mediocrity reflected in the service I was capable of providing them. Our most consistent customer was the town doctor, or a doctor, as you would call him. I called him "Doc", because I was who I was and you were not.
Do we need to take a moment to understand the state in which I'm attempting to regale such a tale?
Doc's favorite drink was an odd duck. That wasn't the name of it, although that's a sweet fucking drink, mostly for Indian hobos and native tramps.
No, the doctor had a propensity for the hazelnut daiquiri.
Yeah, it's stupid. He was stupid. He was a doctor, and he was stupid.
But he loved it. Your standard daiquiri: rum, lime, sweetener, and some hazelnut flavor - he was all over it like a doctor's leech on a haircut.
I mean, not like crazy all over it. He would come in every day, just after 5, have 2-3 hazelnut daiquiris, just enough to take the razor's edge off the day (he didn't believe in razors), and head home to the wife (Mrs. Dr., I presume)
So it was just a normal thing. It sounds weird, but it wasn't. IT WASN'T, YOU JUDGMENTAL MOTHERFUCKERS!
I got used to it after like a day.
So just around the time I'm getting ready to quit (because the restaurant/bar is called Squirrel's, and I swear to god, let's end this rumor once and for all that I don't have any "standards") the regular bartender pulls me aside. She says to me, she says, "Hey, Doc's coming in for his drink, and we're shit out of hazelnut."
This isn't the way I would have said it, but I didn't say it, did I? Did you see the quotation marks? Go back.
So we all fumble around, and I don't really care, but I want my last check, so I eye the room and haphazardly suggest, "What about hickory?"
Now, I understand that hickory and hazelnut are completely different flavors. Ain't no fucking ballpark neither. However, we were 'allegedly' in a "bind", so I did what I could. We combined hickory flavor, some cinnamon, ginger, rum, lime juice, Splenda, and various other ingredients I'll ask you to mind your own god damn business about, in a glass and prepared it for the local doctor. He walked in just after 5, as expected, and took a seat in his regular chair.
I guess it was more of a stool, but come on, let's get going, right?
Obviously I was forced to serve the bastardized cocktail, and I did so with as little trepidation as necessary. The doctor took his usual sip and paused, purposefully, almost menacingly. I suddenly felt the concern of the bar upon my shoulders.
He looked up at me, his old and wisdom-filled eyes sinking into a depression for which I was ill-prepared at 29 years of age. His sigh was wistful and full of a regret I could never know. His lips smacked in a parched preparation before his sullen eyes met mine.
"Son, this is not a hazelnut daiquiri."
My heart sank. I had failed this man, this town, this life. It didn't matter where life took me from here, I carried with me no sense of satisfaction. As my eyes welled, I struggled to meet his steely gaze.
"Yes sir, you got me."
I knew what came next. I had always known, as we've all always known. There was no escaping it now.
"It's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."
He slowly pulled out a gun, and shot me, to death.
That sentence means nothing, but so do the majority of our investments, so lighten up, fuckers.
I remember my brief stint at Squirrel's, a drunken lodge of regulars and irregulars that all shared a common mediocrity reflected in the service I was capable of providing them. Our most consistent customer was the town doctor, or a doctor, as you would call him. I called him "Doc", because I was who I was and you were not.
Do we need to take a moment to understand the state in which I'm attempting to regale such a tale?
Doc's favorite drink was an odd duck. That wasn't the name of it, although that's a sweet fucking drink, mostly for Indian hobos and native tramps.
No, the doctor had a propensity for the hazelnut daiquiri.
Yeah, it's stupid. He was stupid. He was a doctor, and he was stupid.
But he loved it. Your standard daiquiri: rum, lime, sweetener, and some hazelnut flavor - he was all over it like a doctor's leech on a haircut.
I mean, not like crazy all over it. He would come in every day, just after 5, have 2-3 hazelnut daiquiris, just enough to take the razor's edge off the day (he didn't believe in razors), and head home to the wife (Mrs. Dr., I presume)
So it was just a normal thing. It sounds weird, but it wasn't. IT WASN'T, YOU JUDGMENTAL MOTHERFUCKERS!
I got used to it after like a day.
So just around the time I'm getting ready to quit (because the restaurant/bar is called Squirrel's, and I swear to god, let's end this rumor once and for all that I don't have any "standards") the regular bartender pulls me aside. She says to me, she says, "Hey, Doc's coming in for his drink, and we're shit out of hazelnut."
This isn't the way I would have said it, but I didn't say it, did I? Did you see the quotation marks? Go back.
So we all fumble around, and I don't really care, but I want my last check, so I eye the room and haphazardly suggest, "What about hickory?"
Now, I understand that hickory and hazelnut are completely different flavors. Ain't no fucking ballpark neither. However, we were 'allegedly' in a "bind", so I did what I could. We combined hickory flavor, some cinnamon, ginger, rum, lime juice, Splenda, and various other ingredients I'll ask you to mind your own god damn business about, in a glass and prepared it for the local doctor. He walked in just after 5, as expected, and took a seat in his regular chair.
I guess it was more of a stool, but come on, let's get going, right?
Obviously I was forced to serve the bastardized cocktail, and I did so with as little trepidation as necessary. The doctor took his usual sip and paused, purposefully, almost menacingly. I suddenly felt the concern of the bar upon my shoulders.
He looked up at me, his old and wisdom-filled eyes sinking into a depression for which I was ill-prepared at 29 years of age. His sigh was wistful and full of a regret I could never know. His lips smacked in a parched preparation before his sullen eyes met mine.
"Son, this is not a hazelnut daiquiri."
My heart sank. I had failed this man, this town, this life. It didn't matter where life took me from here, I carried with me no sense of satisfaction. As my eyes welled, I struggled to meet his steely gaze.
"Yes sir, you got me."
I knew what came next. I had always known, as we've all always known. There was no escaping it now.
"It's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."
He slowly pulled out a gun, and shot me, to death.
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