Froggy Night

Last night I pushed away from the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge a little earlier than usual and I did this deliberately after seeing that snoring old fogy the last time I stumbled down the steps (see the Lost In Translation post). The image of an obviously homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench in the alley with his eyes open still haunted me like a cryptic warning from some possible future. I instinctively checked out the bench this time, hoping that it would be empty. But it wasn't.

The old man was gone and in his place sat a frog (see pic). I didn't recognize this particular frog who looked much younger and bigger than the frog bartender that filled in for Angus last Halloween. I decided to approach the out-of-place amphibian and talk to it.

"Who are you?" I asked it, trying to be cool, calm and collected.

"Yo no hablo Español," the frog replied in a man's voice.

I didn't hang around to respond. I lit out of there like a kid being chased by the bogeyman. I went straight home and went straight to bed. That night I dreamed I was a frog and a beautiful fairy princess kissed me and I turned into an author whose latest novel was number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

And then I woke up.

Lost in Translation

Last Wednesday around six o'clock I rolled down the steps of Think-A-Holic Lounge a little later than usual from having my afternoon shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser. And that was because I'd had several of them in a row and that kind of dedicated imbibing takes a wee bit of time.

Anyway, across the alley I spotted this sorry-looking jasper (see pic) sitting in front of an old abandoned garage that had been slated for demolition sometime in the last century but which remained standing due to a lack of code enforcement in this part of the galaxy. I felt sorry for the old coot and asked him if he needed a ride somewhere.

"No hablo Español," he replied without even looking my way and despite the fact that I had spoken to him in English, not Spanish.

I thought I'd try asking him the same question again, even though he still refused to look me squarely in the eye.

"Je ne comprends pas le français," the old coot said, still not looking at me. Why he thought I was speaking French was beyond me. I tried to ask him if he needed a ride anywhere one more time. And in English, again, because that's the only language I know.

"Ich verstehe nicht Deutsches," he replied in fluent German.

That did it for me. I had no intentions of asking him any more questions. I was actually more miffed by his refusal to look at me than by his insistence that I was speaking to him in languages other than English. I decided to approach him and see if that would make him look at me. But, when I stood right in front of him, I could see that the crazy old codger was asleep. And with his eyes open.

I left him there as he began to snore. Then I went home and profusely thanked my lucky stars that the old man on the bench was not me.

Glimpse of the Antichrist

Out of the goodness of his heart, Angus McCloud, the big-ass ghost bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, allows me to keep one copy of each of Michael Casher's novels behind the bar, in a little cubbyhole that he doesn't have any use for. Just in case a customer at the Lounge recognizes me and wants to buy one of these books. Being the alter ego of Michael Casher (and, therefore, not the Real McCoy, I am repeatedly told) makes me all excited. I don't really give a hoot who's who in all this monkey business as long as I get to participate.

I think Angus started doing this because I was such a good tipper in the beginning and he thought I'd sell a lot of books (for which he'd get a small commission on each sale, of course). But, ever since I found that treasure trove of his at McCloud Castle, I've been tipping him a strict fifteen percent. And no one has ever asked to see one of Michael Casher's books or recognized me as a science fiction author's alter ego since day one. But I am eternally optimistic.

My optimism was about to pay off this past Friday night when this androgynous-looking person (see pic) came into the Lounge and walked right up to me. He or she or it didn't hesitate for a moment to tell me that he/she/it knew I was an author. I was stupefied and in a mild state of shock.

"But I can't seem to find your books anywhere," he/she/it said. Despite hearing this voice there was no immediate gender recognition on my part.

"Is that right?" I replied, trying not to sound like I had a snoot full of think-a-hol.

"Yeah," he/she/it responded, "and I've been to just about every bookstore in the galaxy. Do you happen to have any of your sci-fi thrillers on hand?"

"Sure thing," I said, jerking my chin at Angus, who promptly pulled out a paperback copy of Michael Casher's first novel from the cubbyhole. I gave it to the would-be fan, who was busy pulling an e-book reader out of a messenger bag.

"Say," he/she/it said around a tongue that was wriggling and straining with the effort of trying to decipher the strange-looking low-tech book, "how do you work this thing?"

Angus was unable to stifle a laugh at this point and I felt a sudden urge to evacuate myself. As I headed for the men's room I could hear he/she/it asking Angus if batteries were included and if the book came with a full warranty. I didn't wait to hear his answer.