Dank Datura #1

He stumbled into the bar, reeking of a weeklong alcohol binge. His facial hair grew in sporadic patches all over his face, making it quite clear that he had not been with a razor (or a woman) in quite some time. His eyes slowly scanned the bar and just as I do with the homeless on my walk home, I adverted his eyes. It was time to make a decision, should I play it normal and hope that I didn’t look crazy enough to bother? Or better yet, is completely batshit insane the solution. Hoping that opposites attract, I opted for the latter and began tracing geometric figures in the air while singing about some ants that went marching up a hill. I realize this is a poor way to demonstrate crazy but I was out of practice, having a job and life.

The drunk took a step towards me. I turned away to face the completely opposite direction of where he was walking from. Peering over my shoulder I noticed that he had taken another step or four in my way. It seemed obvious at this point that his drunk-compass, the one that finds people that give a fuck about what he has to say, was completely malfunctioning. Taking a deep breath, I prepared for the encounter doing what any reasonable person would do. I drank the rest of my beer so he couldn’t drink it. My wallet was placed in my front pocket with one hand over it. And in a momentary act of both genius and adept phone use, with one hand I set the alarm to go off in fifteen minutes. This would give me the excuse to get the hell out of there.

Maybe I have this all wrong, however. I held on to the small chance that I was being a complete asshole about all of this. He was clearly severely inebriated and disgusting, but what if he was a celebrity. I turned towards him and attempted to make out Mel Gibson’s face. No use. Closing my eyes and relying on my new faith in God was also fruitless. The drunken man was still closing in on me, and hadn’t turned into the Olson twins like I had requested. God clearly is not real.

The drunk approached me and stared incredulously. The expression on his face turned into a somber smile and his eyes lit up with recognition. In his intoxicated state he had mistaken me for someone else, an old friend or worse yet an old lover. At this point I had given up on any chance of a quick escape. I quickly prepared some fake answers to the questions I thought he might ask me. How are the kids? Great, all three point five of them are doing well. The Wife? Volunteers at the local church and still make great pork chops.

He advanced to my seat at the bar and sat down next to me. I wasn’t even able to discern who he thought I was as he began talking in a low murmur, at a whispers volume. He gradually became more confident as I was upgraded to best friend status, and I could hear him crystal clear.

“So many people, man. So many fucking people. And it wasn’t just one person. There were tons of them, and I ruined them all. Women and children. People’s fathers, mothers, grandparents and relatives. I sparred absolutely nobody. And…I just could not stop. I’ve hurt hundreds, thousands of people. Thank God you are here, because we did this. Without you I”

I cut him off. By now I was legitimately frightened about what I was sitting next to. From his speech I fantasized a sadomasochistic, homophobic, racist, misogynistic bully. Before I could smash my beer bottle over his head to redeem those he had wronged (aka, run the fuck out of there), a sheer overwhelming feeling of curiosity grasped me. We locked eyes and I asked him what exactly he had done. His indifferent look quickly turned into puzzlement. He pondered over what to say and turned to face me.

“How…do you not know? You were just as big a part of this as me.”

A combination of fear and horror gripped me as I struggled to recollect what it might be. I’m certainly no saint, but couldn’t imagine committing any of the atrocities he alluded to in his drunken stupor of a speech. Paranoid at this point I asked him who the hell he thought I was. He swung his head to the left and to the right and satisfied that nobody was in earshot, whispered his identity in my ear. At that moment I shot up out of my chair, knocking it backwards. I backed away slowly visibly shaken up; repeating over and over that he had the wrong guy. I recognized him in that moment, realizing that he was everything that he said he was. This man was truly vile, and for him to think that I was somehow involved made me sick to my stomach.

By now others had begun to notice and had started to congregate over in our vicinity. One of the larger males asked me what was going on. Still in shock from a few seconds ago all I could manage was to say his name and point. That was all it took. The fraternity kid built like a Buick amplified his voice well over the music playing in the background.

“It’s Robert Iscove!”

The bar was hushed in complete silence as the patrons digested what was just said. For a second nobody could believe that the man who directed “From Justin to Kelly” was here. This incredulity quickly gave way to anger and rage, as memories of wasted nights and fears of ever going back to the movies resurfaced. One woman in particular screamed out, “I still have never been back!” I watched as she attempted to move up to Iscove and say her piece, only to be quickly pushed out of the way and knocked to the floor. As I walked over to help her, the last thing I saw before being pushed over myself was an entire bar’s fists descend on Iscove. Right then my alarm beeped.