The Naked Hunters

Light refracted through his glass like a prism, turning his cheekbones amber in the filtered atmosphere. Scott watched him drink and saw his own follies reflected in the blades of the war-horse of a ceiling fan.

Scott hadn't had a drink yet; conversely Jim slammed down his sixth shot glass as though it were his first. The man amazed him; twenty minutes in a bar and he cut through a quarter of a bottle of Johnny Walker. And he wasn't even tilting. Two years ago, he wouldn't have been shocked, only roaringly drunk and laughing at the witty sayings printed on the barroom's napkins.

Sobriety, as Ozzy Osbourne once said, sucks.

"Hey; they gotta new oil painting."

Following Jim's finger resulted in his sense of taste being assaulted by the sight of a very naked man, errect and holding out a bunch of grapes, all portrayed with fancy strokes of a brush by some gutter Rembrant.

"Did I tell you a chick bought this bar?"

He hadn't.

"Yeah; her name's Betsy. Drinks vodka out of the waitress' navel during happy hour. Anyway, the painting's supposed to tell a story..."

He didn't know that, either...and not knowing pissed him off.

"...See, the naked guy is from the fifties. Her grandmother was takin' an art class at Northwestern. The assignment was to draw the model in some weird place. The art teacher hated the painting, but her grandfather thought it was hot shit."

Scott didn't think that he wanted to meet the sort of woman who'd keep a naked painting of her grandfather in her bar.

"Don't ask me, man. They say it's European. Hey...Jarrett asked for me?"

The hopeful tone Jim used made Scott experience an unpleasant stab of guilt. He spoke the honest truth; they had not.

"Oh...well, I guess somethin's gonna turn up, right? I got my tape royalties to keep the bills paid..."

It had been generous of Vince to give him that money...

"Yeah; McMahon's just got kindness and love flowing out of his ass."

Scott didn't think that was fair.

"Fair? I may not be able to pay for my grocery bill, man!"

Jim had a tendency to blow up when angered. But he cooled down just as quickly.

"Shit, I'm sorry...I'll pay for your coat."

Scott understood, and Jim didn't have to do it; times were hard all over.

"I owe you. Remember Modine?"

Scott remembered Modine; the hookers, mostly. And how Jim had convinced one of them not to shiv him for non-payment. So it was Scott who still owed Jim.

"Nah. You took care of the wife for me. She was sick, man. Don't think I forgot."

Well, he'd forgotten that part of the story. The therapy he'd been through told him that his previously repulsive behavior was to be remembered but never to be enacted again. He'd forgotten his own good deeds, nominal as they were.

Being with Jim reminded Scott that he knew how to laugh. But something about that smoky ghost-town world of his tavern bespoke of a future where he might become just another barroom legend, changing in his car on the way to another hick show in a hick town.

"They call that painting there 'The Naked Hunter'. I keep wondering what the hell he's hunting for when he's holding those damn grapes." He accepted a beer from his waitress, swallowed the heady brew and smiled through his drunken haze. "That was fuckin' deep."

Scott's therapist asked him continually why he continued to hang out with a 'drunk' like Jim.

He needed to tell his therapist to fuck off.

The End