Chief Big Bear and the Unclean

Paintings of street people in an finished basement. Poems are scrawled onto the spaces between the filthy portraits.

Yesterday was a good day. I acquired a free tie, two bottles of malt liquor and some new carpet from a drunk guy who had a box full of carpet for some strange reason.

I owe Mingus money. He paid for me to get into the Commerical; an old bar and likely candidate for Edmonton’s next historical fire. I’ll need to bring him a bottle of Wild Turkey and buy a copy of his book the next time I see him.

A bearded guy in a leather beenie bounced me for stumbling over my shoes and sort of twisting my ankle. I didn’t even spill my beer, let alone fall. The best part: The guy didn’t bounce me earlier after I fell on my face after tripping on a chair. I typically leave bars on my own volition, so being escorted out by an old biker signals a change in my constitution. I hope I’m not getting soft. Maybe it was the Big Bear. I’m unable to remember if I became obnoxious or not.

Malt liquor fills one with an acute sense of shame and regret. Not like wine or bourbon at all. Big Bear is a hellish broth. But what the hell? It was thematic.


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