To top of the agony associated with our second move from hell in three years (more on this later), last night I wound up having an adverse reaction to medication. It started with a headache that came from nowhere and grew to a level of pain I never knew could exist inside a human skull. Well, short of having been penetrated by an ax blade or a half-dozen hollow-point rounds. Then came the nausea, and I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations. I was extremely ill all night long.
So, with the headache still throbbing, a repair guy showed up early this morning to fix two of our garage doors that, by the way, stopped working properly a few days after the purchase of the home. Next up is the pool repair guy who’s schedule to fix…you guessed it, a filter and pump that also stopped working just days after the purchase of the home. All of this while a remodel is still in progress. Oh, did I mention the delivery of our furniture has been delayed once again? Next week is the latest prediction. What’s one more week after living in an empty house for a month, right?
Anyway, I really didn’t feel up to writing an article this morning so I had a thought. Why not post a brief piece of someone’s writing and see if you guys can guess the name of the author who set the words to paper. So, here you go. It’s time to play Name That Author!
Here’s the excerpt…
It was just after ten when I walked into The Red Garter, a rowdy redneck bar situated at the start of a dead-end cobblestone alley off River Street. The joint, a downstairs corner of a rehabbed cotton warehouse, features live music and is well-known for serving an ass-kicking, fight-inducing drink called the Rebel Yell. A concoction made from vodka, gin, and grain alcohol.
The place was jumping, especially for a Thursday night. The crowd, an eclectic mix of tourists, bikers, fishermen, and women with big hair and far too much makeup, were scattered about, playing pool, drinking, and desperately attempting to hook up with a one-night-soul-mate.
A four-piece band was playing what could have been an old Blondie song, but I wasn’t sure. The bass was thumping so hard I couldn’t hear the singing, which was probably a blessing in disguise, especially if the skinny pink-and-blue-haired woman at the mic sounded as bad as the music.
After a quick look around, I headed toward my usual table in the rear of the joint near the dartboard, crunching empty peanut shells beneath my feet as I went. The place had an earthy smell, like old wood and dirt, mixed with hints of stale beer, sweat, and drugstore perfume. Most of the exposed brick walls and heavy lumber were original, from the 1800’s. Some say it, like many of the other historic buildings in Savannah, is haunted by the ghosts of those who died there during the civil war. The stories, true or not, attract tourists to our area like our hometown kitchen guru, Paula Deen, uses butter…by the truck load.
I heard glass break behind the counter as the bartender, a tall, hard-bodied former cop named Lonnie Reavis, tossed some empty bottles into the trash. He made brief eye contact with me as I passed, but promptly turned his attention back to the swarm of customers that surrounded the bar like hogs at a feeding trough. His dark skin glistened like used motor oil under the multi-colored lights shining down from the track above the beer taps.
I took a seat in a sticky wooden chair with my back to the wall. The only spot in the entire place with a view of both front and back doors. I felt the usual, slight thud as the handcuffs in my back pocket contacted the chair bottom. Out of habit, I turned to the side a bit so the steel wouldn’t dig into my hip.
It seemed like just yesterday when…