Nowadays we have a kazillion modes of communication (telephones,
faxes, e-mail, text messaging satellite phones, c.b.’s, you
name it—we got it). Yet still remaining is the age-old mode
of bar talk. This is where real people converse with other (supposedly)
real people in face to face exchanges of ideas, hopes, dreams, braggadocio
and all of it fueled by alcohol. Alcohol is of course the only legal
drug which reduces inhibitions to the point of no return. This always
leads to problems.
My problem is that I’m no good at bar talk but I do enjoy
bars. Just ask my friends. They will tell you. No matter if it’s
a lowbrow cantina-esque place or some toney plush double-priced
place I cannot get the bar talk down to a semi-human level. More
often than not my bar talk tends to end with tables overturning,
bar stools being hurled along with a little chin music accompanied
by occasional gunfire. Sooner or later the boss shows up and I’m
told to take “my business” somewhere else and don’t
bother coming back. Just to be clear I always ask “forever-ever?” I’ll
show you a few recent examples and let you be the judge.
I’ll be content, sitting alone at some bar enjoying my 3 X
1 happy hour whiskeys. Someone pulls up at the next stool, orders
and within 8 seconds clumsy introductions are made and a primitive
form of social intercourse begins. Newly arrived ex-pats ask questions
at a pace that O’Reilly, Geraldo and Larry King would be envious
of. They want answers and now! as if they were a stringer for the
AP, UPI or the International Herald Tribune. Sooner or later my
standard question bobs up - “What do you do?”
When someone says they are an accountant I reply, “So Mr.
bigshot accountant, what’s 34 squared?” Then I extend
my clenched fist on the bar. Using my fingers as a second hand clock
I extend first my pinky followed by my ring finger, middle and index
finger and finally my thumb, signaling 5 seconds have passed. Then
I make a buzzing, ‘you lose’ sound and say, “Thank
God you are not my accountant! If you cannot square a 2 digit number
in your head how on earth could you add three 2 digit numbers together
without first taking off your shoes and socks?” By now the
accountant is wearing a scowl. I had one accountant retort with
“Okay Mr. Smarty Pants what’s 79 squared?” I always
ask “Do you know the answer?” Of course they don’t
know and I reply with “Any fool knows that it’s 6,141.
Isn’t it obvious?”
Sometimes fisticuffs follow. Half the time my stool mate will avert
an altercation with, “What is it that you do?” I always
lie no matter what. In this instance I reply, “I teach mathematics
specializing in square roots and numbers squared.” Like magic
the accountant laughs out loud and a bond of some weird sort evolves.
 A
lot of scenarios involve builder/developer types. (AUTHORS NOTE:
I happen to be one myself) So some new jack builder sits down, identifies
himself and here is a good one for you people who are planning on
building a home. Tell your builder you are considering a hyperbolic
paraboloid roofline. Only a few architectural engineering students
will recall this term and the vagueness of their memories of exactly
what it is will escape them. So I ask the new jack if he would consider
this for an upcoming project I’m putting together. As the
look of confusion covers his face I ask “Hey, what kind of
a builder are you? Are your papers in order? Never mind, I’ll
check with the consulate myself”. After that tables and bar
stools get turned over or are hurled and soon the flushed face wussy
is shown the door. When it’s a lawyer I always say, “Let
me guess, tort law or disbarred?” This always riles lawyers
because shortly upon arriving they find out that there is absolutely
no need for their services in any way, shape or form. No need to
bother with bar talk with attorneys. Any wimp in town can kick a
lawyer’s ass starting at Gigante and ending in the Jardín.
These people are not cut out for the REAL rough stuff.
Maybe I’m wrong or missing something but why mince about
it. Mincing isn’t my style. Often times a newbie will attempt
ingratiating themselves and will say, “Don’t I know
you? You look familiar.” Without saying anything I stare at
them “Clint Eastwood style” for a long 5 seconds then
stare down into my cocktail and down a slug. I look back at the
newbie and say, “It’s possible. Do the math - Tijuana
jail ‘75 - 76, Sing Sing ‘79 - 85, Leavenworth ‘88
- 96 and TDC Ferguson unit ‘99 until day before yesterday.
Dates ring a bell?” Some run. Those that don’t always
ask, “Day before yesterday?” That’s when I order
a triple shot of high priced stuff and put it on his tab. Then I
begin my long dissertation - “You see me and my cell mate
figured it all out. As trustees we hauled trash to the trash truck.
Day before yesterday we went underneath and hugged the drive train
and escaped. I was staring at 7 more years and thought why not a
change of venue, why not serve 7 years in San Miguel? What did you
say your name was? Trust me. You can use your running name if you
want. It’s just in case we bump into each other again”.
Just once it would be ultra-refreshing to hear my bar stool mate
say, “Jesus, I’m a total waste case. What alcohol do
you recommend for ending it all? Money is no object.” I’d
buy the dude a watered down beer and invite him over to listen to
some Townes Van Zandt or Calvin Russell. That would certainly cheer
him up. Or if it was a woman who claimed to be a high priced hooker
I’d invite her over for a home cooked meal and let her sleep
in my spare bedroom that is lockable. That might give her a stress-free
night of sleep. Either way rich losers and high priced hookers will
probably bring me to financial ruin. Bar talk just ain’t my
thing.
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