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looking for logic in a long island iced tea
less than twenty-four hours ago, iruma shibuya finished his last bar shift ever. after a million crushed limes, three continents, and one ex-wife. weak knees. finer white hair, pulled back, ponytailed. sleek, fashionable jacket, ash-black to match old leather boots. dusty thoughts. long thoughts.
under a cloudy sky, he arrives anonymously to the closest club bar. an uncertain future. orders a Boulevardier from a young ladybuck to test her bar skills. notices she poorly scrapes the garnish, releasing oils too soon. winces at her laziness. winces again at how he notices.
orders an Old Pal, warms up. this cocktail is sexy as fuck. his future improves. he flicks a cigarette in his mind. a slow shadow fire burns.
a surprise drink slides across the bar to him, a Mata Hari garnished with rosebuds, his name whispered round the young barbucks. been noticed, small town. tuesday afternoon, surrounded by professional drinkers.
taste buds weaken. memories degrade. let the alcohol run, professional decorum shed. moves across the room as a panther moves, stretched legs to the washroom. ice clinks, memories collide, the afternoon leaves slowly. seeking his seat, and seeking solace, he sidesteps past tottering salarymen to the bar stool. night lights come on, and the room spins briefly. thoughts become choppy waters on the open sea. iruma holds a token of bad decisions.
regressing. sipping rum. sipping rye. memories. regressing, suppressing. decades. Cosmopolitan. Kamikaze. and on his knees, at the beginning of his end, a Long Island Iced Tea.
Jake Tringali runs rad restaurants and thrives in a habitat of Boston bars, punk rock shows, and late-night adventures. His first book Poetry for the Neon Apocalypse is available on Amazon.
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