GENIO HOIST
He came from Salerno, and
he lied like a bitch. Every
third word was some foreign
crack I couldn't understand.
We were drinking Country
Red, a large jug of it, by those
Gallo Brothers, a winery that -
in the past - I've always felt
to be a joke, like Coke without
the fizz. I was right again.
-
He was one of those characters
who rolled his own cigarettes
and just went on talking. The
task was Euro-style nonchalance,
like we should have been sitting
there with Angela Merkel, or
even Silvio Berlusconi. It seems
that cigarette smokers just don't
exist any more.
-
No matter, because much of what
was spoken I didn't even hear.
Those damned Princeton bars
are ever so noisy deep into the
night. My German friend Elizabeth
called it a 'dive bar' but only first
after saying I'd probably not
know what she meant. I hoped
she was kidding, but I took her
at her word. I'd been there before.
-
Before too long, the drunkenness I
was feeling had really set in, and
the clock - I noticed - was then
running backwards. What that
does to 'Time' I do not know. I
wanted to ask Genio Hoist, but
he was already gone.
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