I took a two day slumber away from writing even though collectively I’ve only slept about ten hours the past two nights. My eyes are starting to sag and I’m looking like I should be looking a month from now; not now.
So, the Election came about on Tuesday evening and as a homeboy from Miami-Dade County, it takes a lot of effort to even write that. I think up until tonight they were still counting votes in Miami-Dade county. There’s the play on thought that Cuban Americans are usually forty minutes late to everything. ‘Cuban Time’. Last Christmas, half of my family didn’t come to Noche Buena until about eleven thirty P.M. At which point, the Vodka had already been poured, and the rice had already been served, and the children were making fun of the all the aunts shouting at one another as they yanked each other by the hair for the secret blender hidden in the Gift Exchange pile.
I’m convinced that most of Miami knew what time the Polls were closing and decided, ballpark, that five minutes before they closed was gonna be a good time to head on over to cast a vote.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Nation was either on their sofas, coming up with Facebook captions for the pictures they were taking of the lady fingers they were eating and the chamomile tea they were drinking (‘a sip and a snack to sooth the soul. GO AMERICA!’) or they were at a bar.
I would say, ‘At a Bar like the one, I was at.‘, but the truth is, BRAD’S isn’t like any other bar. It’s a hot mess wrapped in christmas lights with the stench of hot dogs and chicken poppers latching onto the Jenga stack of fake I.D.s, piling up on every table.
That’s a really great thing.
Here, eager freshmen wait for their turn with the rest of the academic spectrum. They pinch their toes and look up at the clock as they await the magical happy hour of Ten Thirty when frozen margaritas with a half ounce of tequila in em’ suddenly drop from 6 to 3 bucks. A draft of Bud Light is 3 dollars whether you get it in a plastic cup or a glass with a couple extra ounces packed into it. The drunk-by-nine few sit with stains of ketchup or tomato paste speckled across their shirts as if they had thought that their left bicep was a secondary, masticating trap.
But Brad’s does have a spirit.
All around, dozens of Gays and American Spirit enthusiasts clap joyously as the television monitors project anything remotely blue.
By One A.M. the floor is packed and they’re still playing M83 while the polls are coming to a close. NOT COMPLAINING. By that point, I’ve had a Finney or two; an ounce of bourbon paired up with a nice glass of Bud Light. It’s delightful and the house bourbon tears me up so much am actually looking forward to guzzling down my bud. At $5, it’s just the thing to do.
Meanwhile, Miami is still counting.
The Drunk-by-Niners have fled and have been replaced by the liberal news bloggers taking after the likes of Vice Magazine. They show off in their flannel and suede as an accompaniment to how much they seemingly don’t give a fuck. As a result, they spill their frozen margaritas on the floor. Another starts to ‘boo’ the hell out of Romney, saying how he’s gonna ‘tweet the balls out of him.’ #What?
But then Obama wins and everybody’s crying because he’s all about the love. The liberal bloggers get intense on the rest of us and send a cardboard cutout of Joey B. crowd-surfing across the bar. I close off my tab, piggyback on my friends’ backs for a bit, screaming ‘¡OBAMAÑANA!’ in every which direction. I run into three of my ex’s and only manage to impress one of them.Ultimately, I decide it’s best that I head on home and buy a bag of Cheetos at the CVS along the way.
Meanwhile, Miami is still tallying it up.
Next morning, I wake up not thinking right. A Finney or two too many, though I only had two, so how could two have been too many? Might’ve been the couple other beers, maybe it was that last one my good friend Michael had gotten for me just as Obama claimed California. ‘IT’S A MIRACLE THOUGH, SO TAKE IT ‘ his reasoning was. He’s a good man who loves Beyonce, so clearly he’s on his way.
I brush my teeth with the weight of a bowling ball pressing down on the roof of my mouth. I remember eating a peanut butter sandwich though, and it was a celebratory experience as I (apparently) realized that I was able to make it through an entire week and half and only consume one jar of peanut butter. I couldn’t find any left over Cheetos so I’m thinking maybe I put them in the sandwich. That explains the aftertaste.
I rush to class, realizing that I took full advantage over at Brad’s. I didn’t give it the respect it deserves. I’ve gotta stop rolling my eyes at the very thought of the place. It’s good and it gets the job done and it’s a humbling experience to see others in much nicer clothing than you still being dicks. Brad’s has won my soul the way Obama has won America, and I approve this message.