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Fifteen Spoons was playing at a bar I hated, but I had to go, so I could pick up a girl I didn�t really dislike, because she was an editor for a well-known publisher, and held, between her creamy ears, the key to getting me out of a job I absolutely despised. There was just one problem: I wasn�t very good at picking up girls, unless you counted ones that eventually turned into my mother, and I didn�t want to go into that again.
I wandered down to the Mad Hatter, whistling an affected blues riff, searching the street corners and crevices in brick walls for enough change to make up the cover charge. Time I got it all together, and pushed through the narrow swinging doors, the Spoons were already wailing out their first set. How I hated that noise. It sounded like fifteen spoons, the huge, home-on-the-range kind, hammering acidly against a thirty-gallon bucket which had been draped over my poor skull. The guy at the door looked at my ID, looked at me, looked at my ID, just shrugged, and took my money. I get that a lot, since the incident with the razor. I checked out the whole room, intensely aware that I looked like I was checking out the whole room. The editor lady was there, dammit, I wasn�t off the hook, but she was talking to a big guy in a black trench, with thousands of pounds of gold ropes around his neck. She was laughing so transparently, I thought she might just shatter against him, like a champagne bottle thrown against a heaving ship. Fuck, to watch her sides move as he stood there calmly, telling her God knows what, was like watching her get fucked. Who needs a tramp bitch whore editor anyway, I thought, sitting down at a small table by the wall. I picked up the spoon some vanished coffee-drinker had left there, and looked at my blurry self in the bowl. I was upside-down, of course, and needed a haircut. The Spoons on stage, meanwhile, were shrieking out some dirge about a guy who goes halfway up a mountain, then the mountain air fills his lungs, he whirls around dizzily, and lets go, plummeting, but not to his death, no, he didn�t die (said the murderously out-of-tune refrain) but, and this is what I had always hated about that song, they never said what did happen to him. I slammed the spoon down against the formica, and wrenched myself to my feet, my head thumping like the bass player�s tortured strings.
�WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO HIM?� I screamed, but the Spoons� amps were cranked to an insane pitch, and the bar was crowded, anonymous, and loud, and no one paid me any mind�except the bartender, who kind of laughed, and went about his business. I sat down, and turned around just in time to see the editor lady, in her low-cut, stretchy black dress, tripping out the door with the man in the long black coat, her laughter turning sultry, roasted, like an August day. Fifteen Spoons played on and on, and people filtered in and out of my vision. People drank, people laughed, glasses broke, the clock kept grinding around in circles, drawing near closing time.
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