3.5 shots of Jameson

at the bar messed me up big time. It was supposed to be quiet, drizzly anonymous Monday night. But there were more people than usual. Don came over about the same time as me. He brought a plastic case of hot sauce with him. His own creation for Jeremy. Some talk of Tabasco followed then a curious looking gentleman came out of nowhere with eyes looking a thousand different shades of darkness. He was before my time in this town so we cascaded our histories of Deer Park and East End in a conversational late-hours, bar room camaraderie. He ordered a green drink that tasted like toothpaste (mouthwash that other girl at the corner said), bought me a drink. Time is not the friend that should ever be trusted. He lived in Wilmington now he said and worked for DuPont. Taxi Driver's mention popped out of somewhere which it turned out he'd seen only recently. I was talking about this character in my novel who was trying to research a news story, had become so obsessed that he couldn't sleep at nights and he kept looking at the notes he had taped on his bedroom wall. Jeremy was trying to say something about Eva the Fugitive. I seriously don't know how can one drop the book once it's opened. I think he started reading it that's what he said. (kill me! kill me! I don't know how long it takes to read that 100 pager). Jeremy said something about an eastern european thing that was a reference to me. The girl who worked at Starbucks across the street during the day asked if I was from there. I mentioned that I was from the east, way east of the eastern europe. I remember this distinctly although I was sure It didn't come off as particularly funny. I don't think I remember anything more about last night except that Jeremy poured that whiskey in a shiny glass and split it neatly into two half-shots. I should have said no there and then. It made up for all that came out during the conversation I had later at the Kitchen Sink.