SMOKE AND MIRRORS AT THE SHOWDOWN

Austin, Texas, May 14 2001

by Walter Agnew Moore II, Roving Reporter

(Names have been changed to protect my health)

I know as soon as the lime goes flying across the spacious interior of the Showdown bar that it is going to hit with a hard accurate smack-- but I am ahead of myself.

First you have to know why we are all in the Showdown in the first place. The movie screening has gone well. People laughed at (Mr.Hollywood)'s humorous mockumentary of "Pop Sensation Mindy Sparks" and her triumphant return to her Texas roots. Showdown is about two blocks from the studio, and when I get there (Kelly) and (Cuchullain) and (Murphy) and (X-Ray Specs) are already there, celebrating the end of their hard work with cold mugs of beer. 

(Kelly) and (Cuchullain) and (Murphy)...and the mugs are decorated with leprechauns and such. I order a pitcher of Newcastle just to be the token non-Mick. 

Pretty soon more of our compadres file in. Showdown is not a small bar-- it stretches out a ways in dark stained wood-- but we take it over. We have about three large tables and a booth, with more people coming. The drinking is serious-- there are almost as many pitchers as people. My kind of people. 

(Mr. Hollywood) still has on his "Walter Moore Band" t-shirt, the one he was wearing when he introduced the movie. Very nice of him. (Cuchullain) wants us to split a billing with his band "Murder Death Kill" and another band, "Stickpony", at the Hole in the Wall in a month or so. It will be a good break. The only problem I can see is that some of my band-members get wiggly when I try to set up new gigs, which is damned frustrating. (Cuchullain) assures me that he will get me all the musicians I need, and that if I give him a WMB t-shirt, he will wear it at his next two gigs. 

The two hair-dresser girls walk in with a couple of hair-dresser boys. The girls come sit by me and (Cuchullain). At that other party, the dark-haired one had been all into (Cuchullain). The pink-haired one had been all into me, that is, until she slapped me. But now she's friendly. I go sit at the other table with (Mr. Hollywood). 

(Mr. Hollywood) is very serious and introspective right now. He has to be totally exhausted after writing this movie, getting together a crew to shoot it, and then spending months trying to cut it down to 30 minutes. I look at him, and say: "(Mr. Hollywood), you need to cut another 5 minutes out."

He looks at me wide-eyed, and I jump in to explain what has been on my mind since I saw it: "It's a good movie. It's funny. But it doesn't *kill* yet. It needs to be punched up, faster."

"God, Walter, I don't know what else I could cut... I cut so many scenes already..."

I tell him to leave all the scenes in, but to shave a second or two off every start and finish. This is probably the last thing he wants to hear now.  

More people come in. I make room at my end of the table for (Graphic Artist), who did all the mock-up album art for the CDs used in the film, and two friends of hers that I haven't seen before, (Cat Girl) and (Sober Girl). 

(Graphic Artist) informs me that she just saw me yesterday in a documentary about smashing up TV's, I was talking about God and pyramids and how smashing TV's made me feel good. 

"Did I come across as crazy?" 

"Oh no, it all made perfectly good sense." 

About that time (Cat Girl) leans across and says, "Oh my God, you're Walter, you were in that alcoholic puppet movie, you're my hero, I want to worship you!"  

Now, I challenge any man among you to step forward and say that after hearing words to that effect, you would not take a closer look at the creature that uttered them. So I do. 

(Cat Girl) is a tiny little waif with Eddie-Munster-chopped-off-spiked-up hair and a jerky, semi-angry, semi-laughing expression that makes her appealing in a disturbed goblin sort of way. We continue chatting even after (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) pops in unexpectedly with a different crowd of people, and maybe you don't know it but it takes a lot for me to ignore (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl). She goes off to another part of the bar while (Cat Girl) tells me all about how Hitler used to roll his r's and that's one reason why that way of pronouncing them fell from fashion in Germany. (Cat Girl) really likes Newcastle. (Cat Girl) sees that I wrote "MOM" on the back of my hand. 

"Go call her-- take my phone-- go call her, I have lots of minutes..." 

It's quiet and empty out back on the patio. The moon is bright through the oak trees. The phone rings twice, and my mother's voice is sleepy. "Happy mother's day, mama. I love you. Are you asleep? I'll call back tomorrow." 

"Well, I'm awake now, what's going on? Are you at home? You sound different." 

"I'm fine. I'm in a bar. My head's stopped up from all the mold, and I'm getting drunk. Don't worry though, I'm walking home." 

"You just sounded like Ken." 

"It's just because I'm drunk, mama. I know I'm drunk, so I'm talking more careful...ly."

"It's kind of funny. I love you sweet-thing, be careful."

I step back into the warm loud cave of the Showdown. (Cuchullain) is working some rock-n-roll deal at my end of the table. The girls are all still there, but (Cat Girl) has maxed out on the beer, is staring glassily, all 100 pounds of her, while (Sober Girl) gets ready to drive her home. (Cuchullain) invites them to our nebulous future triple-billing, and of course they say they'll come. I level a look at (Cat Girl) and say: "Tell the truth." 

"Yes I will come!" 

"Will you be Robin to my Batman?" 

"Of course I will!" 

"Will you go rob convenience stores with me?" 

"Robin will help Batman knock over any store there is!" 

"Can you load a pistol? Are you gonna cover my back?" 

"I'm the best there is!" 

"Will you go out other nights with me and (Cuchullain) and get stupid-drunk again? 

"HELL YES!" 

"Then you'd better give me your number." 

There is a brief scramble for writing materials — (Sober Girl) pops in with a "Don't give him that number, we're getting it disconnected next week!" — and I end up with an alleged cell-phone number. Then (Cat Girl) hugs me "bye" and yowls in a semi-angry, semi-laughing fashion when I lift her up a couple of feet off the ground. 

That's about when I see (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) looking at me from three booths away. Funny thing about (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl). We never plan to do anything. We never call each other. But we run into each other with freakish regularity — and not just because we go to the same places-- we run into each other in places where we have never gone before. Good thing we have similar warped perspectives on life, or else it could get annoying. 

Earlier today, I had seen her at Metro Espresso Bar. She was looking at a book on Criminology. It seemed as good a time as any to tell her about my younger brother Johnathan, who is on death row in Livingston, Texas, for killing a cop down in San Antonio. It was a few years back, in the course of a robbery. As it does with everybody, the news blew her away. But really, people on death row have to come from somebody's family, don't they? Why not mine? 

"He's a poor kid!" she said. "He's a captured killer," I said. 

It was a good talk. It had been a long time since I hashed out all the details like that. The meth lab. The robberies. the blow-by-blow of the murder, a stupid, stupid fiasco. The car chase and wreck when they caught up with Johnathan and his girlfriend that night on that highway out into the hill country. The cop's two little girls. 

She said there was no way she was going to get any criminology done that day, so I told her if she was going to blow it off, why not come to the screening? Have a laugh. 

She didn't come, and I didn't tell her we were going to Showdown later, but here she sits, just like clockwork. I slide into the booth. 

She says: "I need a beer-wench." 

"You want some more beer?" 

"No. I hate beer. I'm drinking cider. I just want a beer-wench to bring it to me." 

I turn and look back at my group. (Shaughnessy) is the drunkest, lurching around the tables like a dancing bear. I fill my lungs Army-style and: "(SHAAAAUGHnessy)!" 

(Shaughnessy) staggers over, I introduce him to (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) and she gives him a five. Two minutes later he's back from the bar with her cider and her change. It's a pretty neat trick. Some people aren't nice when they get that drunk, but (Shaughnessy) is like a really clever Irish Setter, dyin' to please. 

That's when (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) spots (Creepy Guy) shooting pool. He's flicking us dirty but puzzled looks. Wife-beater t-shirt to show off his pumped-up arms, the kind of muscles that only those who have never actually done manual labor possess. She doesn't like him, and that's good enough for me. The story she tells goes that a 5-years-younger (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) used to hang out with (Creepy Guy) for, oh, a few weeks until he did some unspecified creepiness. 

I love how women leave out all the details, but I figure I'll take her side on this because I know (Creepy Guy) is now hanging out with (The Witch), who was once the girlfriend of my pal (The Cajun), until she started cheating on (The Cajun) and then collected a bunch of thugs to toss (The Cajun)'s stuff out of their shared apartment. 

I catch (The Witch)'s eye and wave. She waves back. I smile and say in a normal speaking voice that (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) can hear but (The Witch) cannot: "Ah, you smug little bimbo. How's it goin? You really jacked my friend around, didn't you? etc. etc." as (The Witch) just smiles and makes "I can't hear you" gestures and (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) almost chokes on suppressed laughter. 

(Creepy Guy) pads slowly around the pool table. We no longer exist to him. 

She says: "Look how his every move is calculated to be as cool as possible." 

"Ah, he wouldn't look so cool if he were flailing around on one leg after stepping on a land-mine." 

This draws more than a chuckle. I get a little more serious: "Look, don't feel bad. Everybody's hung out with a creep at some point in life." 

She flashes: "What the HELL are you implying, 'everybody's hooked up with a creep'--" 

"I said 'hung out'." 

"You said 'hooked up'!...damn cigarette lighter." 

"(SHAAAAUGHnessy)!" 

After (Shaughnessy) lights her cigarette, I ask her: "Speaking of creeps in bars, what was the deal with that friend of yours in Metro who jumped all over my case when I was telling you the joke about the Anthropology students and the rats?" 

"Friend? I'd never seen that guy before." 

"I thought that ass-hole was your friend or something. He pissed me off. I was ready to go 'bama' on him." 

"I could tell. I was diggin on it." 

oooooooooooo this is NOT the kind of encouragement Walter needs to live a healthy harmonious life. Walter has never been arrested in Texas. Walter does not need (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girls) telling him when he is in a beer-floozled state that they enjoy seeing him go into red-neckish fight-challenge mode. Maybe that explains my next statement. 

"(Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl), I bet you 50 cents you can't hit (Creepy Guy) with a thrown beer-bottle." 

She touches one or two of the bottles on the table, doesn't pick them up. Then she thoughtfully rocks an empty pint glass forwards and backwards, testing the balance. Next she settles on a big juicy lime. 

I blurt out: "Jesus! You're gonna throw a LIME at him?" 

"Well, somebody needs to do it." 

"Let it go. Let it go. Here, gimme that." 

It took some skill, because (O'Hara)'s head was in the way (afterwards he kept complaining that I "hit" him with the lime, but I don't think I even banked it off of him. OK maybe he got splattered a little in passing) but I always had a good arm, good aim. A childhood spent lobbing chunks of railroad-track slag and granite, pine-cones green or brown, and even occasional snow(ice)-balls at other kids in neighborhood wars back in Alabama. Even sitting there looped-drunk with (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) I zinged it, I picked the spot, I knew it was hitting as soon as it left my fingers. 

That lime smacked (Mr. Hollywood) BUT good bing on his chest. 

You know, I guess it really was time to go. (Mr. Hollywood) jumps up pretending to be mad, (Shaughnessy) and (O'Hara) jump up pretending to hold him back, this goes on for maybe 30 seconds before the biker-bartender leaps into their midst and tells them all "get the fuck outta my bar". (Mr. Hollywood) and the others are stunned, and the bartender keeps heading them towards the back door. I'm thinking "Oh boy", and I tell (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) that I better go see what's what. 

But by the time I find the whole crowd milling out in the back parking lot, they are in high spirits. They managed to get thrown out of Showdown. Nobody ever gets thrown out of Showdown. (Mr. Hollywood) is happy and proud. Hell, let's go eat. 

I turn, and (Crazy-Eyed Genius-Girl) is there. "Hey", I say, "hope I run into you again." 

She shakes her head slowly from side to side. What is she thinking? I can never read those eyes. She just shakes her head and says: "I'm having trouble avoiding you."

© Walter Agnew Moore II 2001