Flash Fiction: 3

Facing too many choices, for someone who is not the sharpest tool in the shed, can be paralyzing. Or to anybody for that matter. But I just close my eyes and I pick. I press four buttons and the machine starts to tumble towards life. A robotic fidgety arm selects a small record, lays it down, and a needle hits the groove to generate that familiar hiss out of the speakers.

TAH-pa-ta-PUM. ♪♫♪

As soon as the drum sound comes through the jukebox, “Esaaaa NOOOO!,” some dude howls from the darkness of the way-way-back of this joint in full lament. The sorrow in his voice triggers mine. “Esa rola noooo,” he pleads to the bulb hanging dimly over his booth. The bulb does not reply. He’s definitely on one.

“I’m still heeeere♪♫♪, after telling you so looooong…♪♫♪,” says the Rock-Ola. The Notations record from the late 60’s hypnotized me straight to the bar to get another round: shot and a chaser.

This fucken song has me nodding to a rhythm that is simultaneously lifting me up and bringing me down. I don’t have a sense of direction. I just keep drinking and after a few I’m forming a strong argument in my head how memories can also paralyze you.

Later, I’m in the booth with the sad homie lamenting party. I’ve kept the songs going for a couple hours now. He hasn’t been able to mutter a complete sentence. But I just wanted a partner to be down in the dumps with. Round after round he keeps my misery company.

This jukebox has a golden selection but I still play that song a few more times just to see his reaction. Also because I think he loves it even if it hurts. Or because it hurts.

“Esos recuerdos…me matan…burble-blabber-bla,” says the homie. I nod.

Sitting next to him my drunken misery doesn’t look so bad.

“Want another one, homie?”

“Blurb-blah…blurb.”

I got chu bro.