A Sign of the Times

About a week ago I left the stultifying confines of my mirror and strolled down Constellation Avenue to Think-A-Holic Lounge for a much-needed shot of think-a-hol and a cold, bubbly chaser. Not so much to get altered as to clear away some nasty cobwebs that had attached themselves to me ever since a certain indie author started making money from his Print-on-Demand science fiction novels.

They weren't jealous or envious cobwebs, the kind that can strangle you in your sleep and make you dream stupid things like not being able to find your way home or being butt naked in a crowded room. No, I have dreams like those all the time. I'm talking nightmare here. The nightmare of disillusionment and disbelief. The kind of reality that creeps up on you and forces you to confront it when you're wide awake.

Just imagine my surprise when I saw the new neon sign hanging just above the entrance to Think-A-Holic Lounge. I knew something awful had happened. I sensed the presence of flesh-and-blood where it didn't belong. I sniffed the air and knew that, from now on, it was a brave new world.

"Where'd the new sign come from?" I asked Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartended and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet. But I already knew the answer to that. I had issues and they ruled for the time being.

"Isn't that something?" Angus cooed, like a star-struck girl. He set me up with the usual while I sat and stewed quietly.

"It's a bit overdone, don't you think?" I pressed on.

"It's gift from ol' Happy Sad," Angus said in a nonchalant manner that made me want to spill something on him. But I tossed back the ol' elixir and sat nursing my draft. The ball was still in his court and he knew it. But Angus refused to play by the rules.

"Izzat right?" I said, waiting for the bomb to land in my lap.

"Yeah," Angus responded, both elbows resting on the polished mahogany bar. "When he got his first royalty payment back on Earth, ol' Hap bought us this new sign. UPS delivered it last Friday and two of the regulars installed it on Saturday. Ain't it a beaut?"

"Lovely," I said, not wanting to act the party pooper. Then I ordered a triple shot of think-a-hol without the usual bubbly chaser. Now I needed to get altered.