fiction by Jason Edwards
We started off at the Regis Arms, where Clarence had a Wesson’s Original and I had a Folby’s 13-Year. Clara, Mike’s sister, was there, serving instead of drinking this time, which meant she had to play nice when I smacked her on the ass. It was like hitting a velvet balloon packed very tightly with expensive cottage cheese.
From there we walked over to the Russet & Merry, where I had three bitters and a sour, while Clarence managed to make a Tiny Tim last through three repeats of “Come on Eileen” on the orchestrina. The landlord frowned at us the entire time but then when I asked for a bag of Denny’s Smash he seemed eager to sell them to me. Left them right there on the bar, I did.
Helen of Leeds was there, which is what we always called her after her dye job made that one bloke with bad acne chase her around for two weeks insisting she knew his mother. I suggested we go to the Duck’s Goiter, and Clarence explained I was thinking of the Lucky Goiter, and Helen of set us both straight and led us to the Lucky Garter. Mine was a Champagne-on-Marbles while Clarence tried a Savoy and Seven. Helen of asked if they carried Coke or Pepsi and when the stiff behind the rails said neither she had a Jamison in a tall glass. Cheeky.
After that, we hit several places in quick succession, tipping cabbies along the way to make sure we never had to piss in the same WC twice. The Gray Bones for a pint of Old MacMillian’s, The Chelsea Cracker for a shot of Grandmother Gilligan, and, of course, no night with Clarence and Helen of would be complete without a stop at The Steeple and Tomato for a Flaming Cherry Cummerbund. As luck would have it, Clara, Mike’s sister, was there, drinking not serving, and when she smacked me on my ass It was like Infant’s all over again.
We snogged until Clarence got a call on his mobile from Clarissa, who said she and some mates where over at The Cooper’s Demise, so we grabbed a handy double decker and offered the driver shots of Purple Passion for most of the trip. He refused, of course, and we only stopped when he let us sniff his thermos. I’m no expert, but if his Earl Greyjoy wasn’t spiked with Little Jack’s Number Eleven, I don’t know my potables.
Clarissa’s mates were alright so we played credit-card bingo until one of them, Clayton I think, said there was a fruit machine over at Medusa’s that was usually good for a tenner. On the way there we hit The Raven and Flower, The Seven Sprinkles, Mr. Marten’s, The White Tiger (where Clarence nearly got into a knock-down with Mike’s sister Clara, who was there delivering cases of Wicked Peter, not drinking or serving) and even a quick half-glass of sherry at The Mine Diamonder, even though Helen of’s been banned there for two years now. They didn’t even see here I don’t think.
The Mule’s Foot was closed to the public for a charity event, but Mike’s sister Clara, who was there serving canapes not drinking, snuck us out a plate of casa-queso-en-pano, which we gobbled uncontrollably until one of Clarissa’s mates, Clementine I think, pointed out that the paprika was from Madagascar, so we all spit it out. We’re not racists, for Christ’s sake.
After that Clarence dragged us up to Commodore Filbin’s where he had a Galloping Theresa while Helen of’s was a Brutal Stone, no ice. I asked for a Teacher’s but they gave me a Philharmonic by mistake. I was going to complain but that was when Clarissa told us her mates wanted to go see Missing Chesapeake, a funk combo that were about to start playing over at The Buttered Onion. So we left before I could make my concerns known, though I was sure to leave a very fierce tip.
Of course they wanted a fiver for a cover to see the band, which goes against my principles, but Helen of said she knew one of the roadies so we all got in through one of the side doors. I made straight for the automat because I was in desperate need of a curry, but Clarence beat me to it and got a shepherd’s stuck in the chute. He tried tilting it back and forth but then one of Clarissa’s mates, Clodagh I think, accused him of taking woman pills instead of man-roids and they started brawling. Or shagging, I couldn’t tell. Up on stage, a familiar voice started belting out an old tune about the best place to buy very expensive cottage cheese, and who was it but none other than Mike’s sister Clara, on bass guitar. Smashing.
When she was done I had that look in my eye so Clarence dragged me out and we headed towards The Jelly Tomorrow but we lost Helen of along the way, and one by one Clarissa’s mates disappeared down alleys and up stoops to bedsits where they were squatting. Soon at was just me and by best mate once again and after a shortcut through Fitzpatrick Park we wound up in front of the Duck’s Goiter, which existed after all. That got us to laughing. It was a pretty good night.
So, listen, people will tell you that a pub crawl in Wichita, Kansas is bloody awful—but I’ve lived here my entire life, like, and I’d never leave it for anyplace else.