Carl the Death Driver / Ch-3 / Pt-5

Through thin pre-rush hour traffic and blinding afternoon sun glare, they rode in Bingo’s truck over to Bartholomew’s Great Cabin & Brew Hut. At the first stop light, Bingo reached over and popped open the glovebox door at Porter’s knees. There was a small inventory of gummies in amber colored plastic bottles. “I’ve got low dose and kickass Delta-8s. You’ll feel chill by the second round of drinks,” Bingo said with a clever smile, his eyes darting between the road and Porter. “Gave all that Delta-9 stuff to my sister’s friends — toxic flavor burned my throat and the shit was knocking me out way too early.”

They were halfway to Great Cabin when Bingo was momentarily blinded by the full force of the sun and instinctively swerved to avoid a stray dog in the middle of the road. Porter was preoccupied with a small fly seemingly stuck between the dashboard and the windshield. He studied the contents of the open glove compartment and thanked Bingo for the kind offer. Porter lowered the passenger side window and the fly was a thing of the past. He then shifted in his seat and reached into his front pocket for a clear compact container. “These are for end of day, but I wouldn’t trust it while we’re driving. We can celebrate our extra hours of freedom. One for you and one for me.” Porter smiled, raised his eyebrows, and shook the small container that held his baby blue Snuggles.

Two hours later, Porter and Bingo sat at a high-top near the back of the bar. They were in the Captain’s Quarters of the pirate themed tavern chomping on their fourth free basket of stale nachos. Bingo never joined Porter on his psychedelic trip. The adulterated blue Molly was beyond his personal guardrails. He had his own substance history and fought back from heroin use in his youth, surviving more than one overdose resuscitation. Bingo had a rulebook in his head for how he pursued his highs and the limits he held to, but he didn’t project his personal style of recreational practices upon Porter. Even with the ever present risk of relapse, Bingo was tempted to elevate his mellow gummy high and better meld with Porter’s current train of trippy thoughts.

Porter managed his mind’s movements through an internal voyage removed from the passage of time and his current place. There were many moments within a given minute, when he would retrace back to real time and refocus on Bingo. Then, layers of separation would build once again. Porter observed Bingo from a remote distance beyond the bar as he remained physically across from him with saliva leaking in the corners of his mouth. Bingo noticed the foggy state of his drinking companion and celebrated his higher level of intoxication. A perseverance to stay present with intermittent camaraderie kept the party of two going, even if they were operating on different levels of consciousness. After an initial explosion of random and disconnected statements about people and food, Bingo did his best to decipher and distil the key points of Porter’s ramblings. Once Bingo echoed the sentiment and assured his friend of the deep insights uncovered, there was a silence at their table. Porter settled into a quiet mode of reflection and seemed to be processing the words he spoke earlier. It was at this point that much of the conversation became one-sided with Bingo voicing wide ranging complaints about other tellers and flaws in the overarching operations back at the bank. Porter’s thoughts had turned inward but he was cognizant enough to be agreeable.

A barmaid with dark wet hair and a deep V-neck halter top asked Porter if he wanted anything else from the bar or the kitchen. He was crossing over from hazy to hyper-aware, and the next phase of the drug brought about charm and chatty behavior. “I love the IPA we’re drinking. This is our favorite place for after work get togethers,” Porter babbled, his words tumbling out faster than his thoughts. “I’ve told a number of people that you have the best fish and chips. The flavor of your malt vinegar is top shelf.” His eyes peeked around the bar before landing back on the barmaid. “My friend, he’s in the men’s room. If I could ask you to circle back, I’ll see if he’s up for food or another pitcher.”

The barmaid gave the high-top a quick clean-up swipe with her damp and dirty rag. She looked up momentarily and could see that Porter was fixated on her breasts. The barmaid held her breath to keep her laughter at bay. Still, a snort escaped her throat upon exhaling. She finally caught Porter’s eye and led his gaze down to the table’s surface. With a polite gesture, she waved her open hand over a plastic presenter tray that held a paper receipt along with a chewed-up pen. “Your pal, the short guy with curly hair? Yeah, he left at the end of happy hour.”

Porter was standing outside the bar and mesmerized by the late rush hour traffic on Polk Boulevard. His legs were less than steady and his throat was parched. He was especially dry from an excess of salty nachos and Double IPAs while inhaling a steady flow of cigarette and vape exhaust entering the back of the bar from the Poop Deck patio. Porter rotated his head and stretched his neck in the hope of creating better blood flow to his brain. His eyes came to rest upon the early evening horizon receding into burnt orange behind silhouettes of a low-lying urban landscape. Through this backdrop, a glowing blue neon sign arose and Porter was summoned.