Montezuma Red

Together we wade through the swamp, congregations of drunk men clinging like algae at our hips as we pass through the marsh; swimming in gator-infested waters. We sip our drinks – those of us who have them – to the very last drop, static taste of liquor and malt on our lips.

Pitchers of cheap booze and cola mingling like an ice cream social – plastic rims adorned with red lipstick – we let the alcohol drip down our throats. The room smells of mud, bodies close together like human soup, no way to get out from under one another. Shoulder to shoulder with God and all his men, we traverse through the terrain, a looming battlefield awaits.

The electric buzz of neon covers us in its cellophane sheen. Peering through the haze of bodies, we exchange dances with the nearest stranger, shoes stuck to the beer-battered dance floor that throbs with the slick of R&B. The DJ spins records at his fingertips, before R&B fades to country. A Zach or a Luke or perhaps a Tyler, we don’t know. The mass exodus of the dance floor draws us back to our table, our things that we have left there. Our eyes meet each other’s as if to say we should get on out of here.

Outside the streets, the alleyways, our breath escapes our mouths like cigarette smoke; frosted fingers at our lips. Our coats cover our bodies, flesh no longer exposed from our shirt’s insufficient coverage of our chests. Salted streets crackle underfoot as we pass over the sidewalks and the rough pavement. Frost leaves maraschino cherry stains on our cheeks.

Indistinct voices and chatter pass by us as we make our way through the night. In damn-near complete darkness, barring the streetlights and damp pub lighting leaking out onto the street; the night ends. We pace through the blue hues of morning, the sky still navy. One of us giggles, makes a suggestion: pizza. A unanimous agreement for substance after a night of filling our livers to the brim with ethanol.

Amongst the nondescript sidewalk splatter – the chunks of things that could or could not have been formerly in someone’s stomach -we march with our hands tied to each other, to the nearest pizza shop. A blue door, illuminated by our carbonated haze, the only place that will accept us at this hour, in this state. The place is filled to the brim with inebriated idiots – like ourselves – with swarms of the same drunk alligators, who might have followed us from the swamp. Napkins line the floor, stuck by the spills of soda and fat drippings. The line extends to the door where we stand; we fall back.

Impatiently, we wait. Our hands in our pockets and conversation at our lips; lingering on the dried rouge on our mouths. Red, like the color of the revolution. We imagine what it must feel like, before succumbing to our incessant need to examine our own features for signs of imperfection. Someone pulls a compact mirror from their purse to fix this. The line recedes with great speed, a haste, as the marsh creatures quickly catch their prey. We near the front.

The man at the counter stares back at us with sweat on his brow, and disdain on his face. His displeasure with the drunkenness, the noise, seeps out into his temples like a wet sponge too full to hold all the soapy water. We pay for our pizza with our plastic dollars and say our thank yous, and the man stares back with a lead-paint stare even after we have padded his tip jar.

Taking a seat at the nearest table with the least amount of stains and oil slick dispersed on the top we discuss how lucky we are to have each other; and let the sustenance grease our tongues and widen our hips.