And now, the continuation of the dizzy spell preceding the massive coronary:
“Where’s my fucking shirt?” Amanda roared over the phone. I was still in line at Tink’s, which was so packed that arms and legs seemed to protrude from the windows and cracks in the masonry. The amazing crush of humanity inside was mirrored on the sidewalk in front of the building, where the string of the shamrocked stretched down and around the corner onto Adams. Funny enough, Amanda was on Adams herself, at the Bog, only a few hundred feet away, and yelling into my ear.
“It’s here!” I told her. She was clearly blasted out of her skull, which seemed almost impossible this early in the morning, but nonetheless the proof was in her voice, and general demeanor.
“Hey!” she shouted.
“What?”
“Where’s my fucking shirt?”
“Who are you with?” I asked. We were approaching the doorway now, beyond which there didn’t appear to be any spot unoccupied by a human, a table, a pole, or a staircase. It was a mass of elements, impenetrable to the eye, and I wondered how we were ever going to get to the bar, and why we were even trying.
“Spike!” Amanda roared in reply, and a loud ‘Whoooooo!’ went up from her end of the call, presumably from Spike, whoever that was.
“We’ll be going to the HoJo soon, just meet us there,” I told her. Our group was now passing IDs to the biceps working the door, and I needed to get off the phone to do the same.
“Okay,” Amanda said, sounding uninterested, or distracted, then roared again, “Hey! Where’s my fucking shirt?” She laughed and hung up before I could say anything more.
I spotted a poster near the door for Tink’s Parade Day festivities. There were a number of bands playing throughout the day, some doing two sets spread apart, but we’d hit the only time slot for the band currently murdering “Comfortably Numb” inside. The disjointed and jangly notes were beating us into submission through the open door, but the crowd just ahead of us in the dark of the room seemed to be enjoying themselves. I wasn’t too excited at the prospect of this noise filling my every tangible thought once the cover was paid, but there was no turning back now. The band, of course, was Kartoom.
“Figures,” I muttered.
“Why is this band familiar?” Sarah yelled at me, by way of conversing in the cacophony. I did my best to shout the explanation at her. Kartoom was a cover band who played primarily in a bowling alley in the aforementioned hellhole that is Wilkes Barre. Some folks I knew from my miserable job as a medical claims processor arranged their lives around the exploits of this group, and followed them all over. I found this a ridiculous way to spend one’s spare time, and told them this, as well as informing the girlfriend, which then meant that I was utilizing my spare time poorly, as I spent it talking about this bowling alley cover band from Wilkes Barre. And now, here they were.
We were packed in chest to spine to elbow to groin and slowly tried to fight our way toward the booze. Even in this canned ham atmosphere, the spirit of Parade Day cheer wasn’t dampened. Our group still hooted and hollered and did their best to nod along to the teeth rattling rendition of “Disco Duck” being puked all over the crowd. We moved forward slowly but cheerfully, all except Big Rob, who was trying to make time with some college chick who had gotten stuck in our midst. She was amenable to Rob’s shouted compliments, and so his beer soaked clothes didn’t dampen his spirits.
I sent Angie a text message that said “Tinks. Crowded. Call wjhen ykou gert hherrmemsk” as my arm got slapped around quite a bit in the crowd and I hit send before I could correct the typos.
I thought to try and find my work friends, as I knew they must be there somewhere, but as yet I could barely see my girlfriend in front of my face, so crushed up against her hair and green shamrocky crown as I was. We inched forward en masse, like a football offensive formation of the 1920s, with 4Life leading the way and the rest of us arranged as a wedge, shoving forward.
If Tink’s is this crowded, what must the Bog be like? That place is the size of my girlfriend’s studio apartment’s bathroom! Who exactly is this yukster named Spike? And how does a band manage to screw up the melodic masterwork that is “Disco Duck”? It’s BYOB at the next account of Scranton and Parade Day, likely entitled All the World’s a Distillery!
