On men and pigs

Last Saturday of July was hot and frying. Three customers were sitting at the bar for about two hours now, filling the space with the stink of their sweat and noise. They ordered Margaritas, rocks, salt, a double Jameson’s and a tiny beer in a rocks glass (the little beer for the little leprechaun in my stomach – explained Anton). “They must be rock stars – decided the bartender in her own mind – who else would be so full of himself not to respect other people’s nostrils to that extent?” The big girl who came along with Anton and Frankie suggested at the same moment:
- “Guys - maybe after this round we’ll go to a hotel and take a quick shower?”
– “Shower shmower” – laughed Frankie - “I’ve been wearing these pants for, like, 6 days straight – what good a shower would do?”
They were smoking, screaming at each other throughout the whole room. They were loud, sweaty and obnoxious – like the teenagers left home alone with the booze. But still, there was something fragile and sad about them – the unexpected, delicate words that they would say to each other, fascinating love and hate relationship between Anton and Frankie. As the afternoon went on, barmaid started to get attached to her troubled customers. Almost like a mother-figure, she was eager to please them, wipe the sadness off their faces, and brush off these stupid rock-stars masks. Then the comments on life became more and more devilish (Anton: “If I had a gun, I swear to god I would kill that bitch right now; I never believed that there are bad people in this world, I thought deep down we’re all good. Bullshit! She’s evil, evil I’m telling you”), and probably booze and speed snorted in the bathroom had something to do with the intensity of it all. They went from “Man, I love you, you’re my brother – get rid of that bitch”(Anton) to “I hate you, motherfucker, leave me alone, and go fuck yourself” (Frankie). Bartender had no idea what they were talking about, and, knowing better, she wouldn’t ask (if they wanted to tell her, they would). Somewhere around 6pm, a guy came into the bar, looked at the rock’n’roll crowd, and asked Anton: “Aren’t you such and such, by any chance?” (the bartender couldn’t make out the name, it was way too long and complicated). “Yeah, man – we’re having a tour in New York, playing at the Bowery ballroom – you should stop by”. The guy shook Anton’s hand and went back to his beer and a book. “Excuse my ignorance” – started the bartender, busing the table of a stranger – you know those guys? Cause I serve them since noon and have no courage to ask what band they are from. And now it would be even more awkward…”
The next morning they came again. This time without a girl. Same clothes, same oily hair, same order: Margarita on the rocks, salt, Jameson’s neat, and a mini-beer. “How did it go last night?” – asked the bartender, knowing well enough that last night’s gig was a disaster. Some guy from the audience started to insult the singer, and he couldn’t get over it. So instead of playing, the band was just badmouthing the audience and vice versa. They played maybe half an hour altogether. “It didn’t go so well – said Anton – cause people are fucking pigs, and dogs and even worse than all the animals together”. “Well, they are – but do we care about animals’ opinions as much as we do about people’s? Since they’re pigs, you shouldn’t let them bother you, cause you’re not a pig. Are you?” Anton didn’t answer. The next concert of Brian Jonestown Massacre in New York went much, much better from what I heard.