Guinness, lions, Jazz and a hat.

You ever have one of those days when people just really annoy the living shit out of you? One of those days when even people who are trying to be helpful get on your nerves, and the people who really are being pricks are at risk of receiving serious injury? At least in your mind they are. One of those days when it's a non-stop string of people and things that require your attention RIGHT NOW and, despite the high volume of things you seem to be doing, you actually get nothing accomplished? One of those days when you think you've finally gotten everything done, only to discover another stack of shit you completely forgot about. You ever have one of those days? Of course you have. Everyone has. How do you deal with those days? What is the antidote? Well, I don't have the answer, but in the meantime, I'm having a Guinness. That's a good start. Let's discuss the healing properties of Guinness, eh? Actually, no, let's not. I'd love to, really, but my brain refuses. It just stood up and said, "JUST DRINK IT AND STOP THINKING, WILL YOU PLEASE!?!?!" I'm inclined to listen. I find that my brain has an excellent safegaurd system built into it for times like these. It just shuts down and refuses to do any more. Then it yells at me until I comply. Works rather well. Of course, it can be a bit troublesome if it decides to shut down in the middle of something important. One time it decided to shut down right in the middle a particularly intense lion taming session. The lions were really grumpy and hadn't been fed yet that day so it was already taking every bit of concentration I could muster just to keep up with them. One of them broke out and tried to kill the ringmaster and that was all my brain could handle. It shut right down and started demanding Guinness and I was lucky to get out of there alive. Of course, the ringmaster was pissed and when he got out of the hospital he kicked me out of the show and I was forced to return to life in the normal world. The strongman felt sorry for me so he put me in touch with someone who could get me a job and help me re-aclimate to the world. I ended up with a day job at Macy's and a night gig washing taxi cabs. I was living in a crap motel that cost $104 a week, which left me just enough for a pack of Camels and the Weekly World News. I made friends with a dame at the diner who's name was Rosanna and she'd slip me leftover food whenever she could. I always looked forward to taco and barley soup day. To this day, though, I still can't eat macaroni and cheese. You don't want to know why. I started hanging around this seedy jazz club on the other side of the bridge. At first they wouldn't let me inside since I didn't have any money to buy drinks. After a while though I started doing favors and running errands for the barkeep and eventually I was able to replace my taxi washing job with a gig washing dishes at the jazz club. The work sucked real bad but the music! The music was amazing. I'll never forget it. Thursday night was Rutger Chek night and I couldn't believe that God would give that much talent to just one person. He was amazing! Every once in a while I would bang around on the piano after hours and pretend I was him but I had no business with that instrument. Still, it was nice to dream. I had finally worked up the courage and I was going to introduce myself to him. I didn't really think he'd talk to me but I had to try. There was some bigshot from a Jazz label there that night to hear the show and I just knew he'd get signed and we'd never see him in our little hole again. The show ended, the crowd went nuts and Rutger stood up and took a bow. That's when the gun went off. It was so loud in that tiny little club I couldn't even comprehend what had happened at first. Then Rutger's silk shirt started turning red and he fell forward off the stage onto one of the tables near the front. People started screaming and running everywhere but I couldn't move. I was glued to the spot and my eyes were glued to Rutger's corpse. It was just there draped over the table with a gin and tonic spilling on his hat. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I walked over and picked up his hat because it just didn't seem right to let it sit there in a puddle of gin and tonic. This was HIS hat, after all. The cops nabbed the guy who shot him right outside the club. He wasn't even trying to run away, they said. He was some crazy junk-head who had wandered in and thought Rutger was Richard Nixon in disguise. At least, that's what we were all told. I don't know if it was true or not. What I do know is that when I finally wandered home that night I was still holding Rutger's hat, and I still have that hat to this very day.