Scotch She was wearing short shorts and a halter top which was more than an excuse to stop and ask her for the time. She didn’t have a watch however and there was no way a phone would fit in those shorts but we sit and sat on the grass anyway. Her name was Charlie – short for Charlotte - , my name is irrelevant and she had short brown hair cut like a boys that exposed the nape of her neck. In fact she was so striking it was obvious her choice of attire had everything to do with the heat and nothing to do with gaining a boys attention. We sat and talked about the dew on the grass, the colour of the leaves and the fact that a clocktower was directly behind us. It was too hot for lectures and the park was almost packed with others in few clothes and much abandon. Notebooks emptied from bags sat unopened, weed was smoked through the odd apple and at least three different games of happysack were underway, in short a typical sunny day on campus. I had not spied Charlie in any lecture of mine and so assumed she was not a lit major, ‘drama’ she replied and something in her gait should have given this away but I was otherwise distracted. I minored in Film and saw this as the best gateway into drama’esque conversation and mentioned the last art house film I had seen, something to impress with any luck. As luck would have it she was a fan of the director and had seen all ‘the auteurs’ work as soon as it came out. Something about the ‘acting without acting’ that he encouraged from his cast intrigued her and gave her much to consider given her own first love. I knew enough about ‘the method’ having just read Marlon Brando’s ‘Songs My Mother Taught Me’ to segue into his technique and for the next fifteen minutes I was blessed with unfettered back and forth on the great man’s talent and wilful abandonment of such talent, his lust for life and distrust of career choice, love of the production but always disappoint with the product. We felt like two old friends over a bottle of wine, which reminded me I had some scotch in my bag and perhaps she’d like a nip or two. “Well it’s the evening somewhere,” was all she said as she tipped her head back. Some dribbled down her neck and it was all I could do to control the urge to lean forward and lap it up but gentleman that I am the urge was weak and I was strong. She asked who my favourite writer was as her eyes watered and I replied Hunter S Thompson, “He was a drinker wasn’t he?” she inquired and I replied “Well yes, a prodigious drinker but only of bourbon, Wild Turkey Bourbon. A prodigious indulger of many a fine substance in fact, though I think mescaline was a favourite.” This lead to an admission from us both that we didn’t really know what mescaline was, although I had read it came in blue caps. At this point Charlie accepted the Scotch once more took a swig and then lay down on the grass, I offered my bag as a pillow and she gratefully accepted the offer. A hackysack landed dangerously near the bottle of Scotch, a butterfly hovered nearby and the heat of the sun burned my shoulders. Charlie placed her hand over her eyes for shade, I spoke of Fear and Loathing and we both relaxed into an afternoon destined for memory.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 22:40:13 +0000
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