The band struck up a tune I didn’t know, but was happy to hear it for the first time. I was just coming out of the bathroom and, disoriented by the dropping of the beat, I temporarily forgot what I was supposed to do. I remembered my mission was to piss and get another round, the first now successful I found my way to accomplishing the second.
I found a bar directly below the raised stage. It was an odd placement for a bar, but as long as they have beer I’m not going to complain. I stood in the short line while the thumping baseline reverberated my very soul. The singer sang in a falsetto, the tweeters on the amps above my head must have been working overtime.
My turn at the bar went well, I shouted above the beautiful dim for a six pack of beer. The barman nodded and held up fingers for an amount of currency, which I handed over in excess, with him returning the change. He disappeared into the dark area behind the bar, illuminated only by a neon Jager sign. I looked into the red glowing eyes of the deer, losing myself to the song and the hypnotic appeal of the glowing noble gas.
The barman returned with a metallic bucket full of ice and longneck bottle. He pushed my new purchase to the side and started with the guy behind me in line. I inspected the bucket, which I assumed was meant to look like an old timey wash tin, but its lack of handles made me think that it was a less than stellar replica. The lack of handles and the cold condensation on the exterior made me rack my brain on how best to carry it through the crowd. In a moment of impulse I threw it on my head like a woman in a far away culture bringing a water jug back from a distant well.
I thought the bar man might give me some guff or at least a stern look of ‘if you drop it you won’t get free replacements so don’t be a dipship and endup covering the bar in broken glass’ but he didn’t pay me any mind. I strode off with my bucket upon my head, one hand on the side for added stability, and a huge smile on my face. I bounced with the still raging tune, weaving through a crowd that seemed to pay no heed to the guy with a bucket on his head. Perhaps they’d see everything, to the point of finding even the somewhat out of the ordinary hopelessly gauche, or they just didn’t give a shit about some stranger. I hope it’s the latter.
I arrived back at my group, and was greeted by smiles ranging from bemused, to happy, to ‘fucking lunatic.’ I genuflected, presenting them with the beers, which I watched be taken from below. I reached up and grabbed the last bottle, and with a move that worked better than I expected, slid the bucket straight from my head to the table they were sitting around. I opened the beer with a wet, cold opener that had been chilling with the beers. I took a victory sip. It might not be much, but when you’re drunk a successful drink and piss run is always something to be enjoyed while in progress, celebrated when successfully completed, and always done in extravagance.
