United
States Blues
★★★★★
"I'm
Uncle Sam," Ron joked to Mike and Laura. He wore a red and white blazer,
along with blue suede shoes. "How do you do?"
There
they were, having cocktails and wine, at a special version of the Congressional
Ball, just around a month from the Fourth of July. Laura's silver sequin dress
shimmered as the spotlights skimmed over the crowd. She matched with Mike, who
wore a metallic gray blue suit, topped with a Stanzo fedora. Tin Man and Tin
Woman.
"Hey,
honey," Ron said, finally finding Barb. She was a white lady in a crowd of
white ladies.
"Hi,
Ron," Barb replied. She walked slowly through the dance floor in an
attempt to brush him off.
"Barb,"
Ron jumped in front of her, and smiled. "Honey, I'm sorry. I messed
up."
"I
can't deal with this right now," Barb said after a long pause. She walked
away, without looking back, and joined the Undersecretary and a few other
ladies for a drink.
A
Will Smith lookalike, sporting a black suit, bumped into Ron. The man said,
"You look hungry," before taking out a plastic bag from his pocket. A
waiter came by, carrying a black tray of champagne, which he promptly grabbed
one of them, and dumped it into the bag. "These are what I like to call,
'Bean Balls.'" He opened the bag, and pointed it at the writer. Inside,
there were three, roughly shaped, brown "Bean Balls."
Confused,
Ron blurted out, "What?"
The
man replied, "They're Bean Balls. I take 'em everywhere."
"To
all these parties?"
"Yeah,
what else would I do with them? Send them to the Taliban?" The lookalike
quipped, accidentally falling back onto a man with a long, graying beard, and a
red turban. "What the hell, buddy?" the man boomed in a gruff,
middle east accent. As Ron headed to Barb, his voice faded became muffled, and
eventually faded into the background.
Interrupting
Barb's conversation, Ron apologized again, "I messed up, Barb."
"Not
right now, Ron," she put her hand in his face, and pushed him away. With a
tear in his eye, he walked out onto the streets of the capital. He couldn't
find quiet, and went out in the rain, soaking his head to unrattle his brain.
To him, it wasn't like a rain, but more like a sea.
The
streets were littered with all types of garbage: paper bags, newspapers, and a
scattering of blue Dasani water bottles, which Ron kicked around. "America
300" banners, dangling from the Twin-20 street lamps, flapped in the wind,
showered in yellow light.
Drenched
from head to toe, he stumbled into one of the city's remaining bars, a quiet
respite from the pouring rain. A handful of dim, warm lamps barely lit the bar,
but the moonlight, shining in from the fogged-up windows, did most of the heavy
lifting. The writer sat down next to a divorced-looking man, surrounded by four
empty pint beer glasses.
"What
can I do you for?" the bartender asked, leaning on the counter. Ron
scanned the rusty shelf behind the bartender. He noticed a few cartons of
strawberry milk, and an odd amount of tequila. "I'll take a Pink Rabbit,
good sir," he replied with a faint smile on his face.
★★★★★
Written
by Jerry Zervas on 3/20/26.
DO
NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email me)
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