By mouth{JT}

The bump of the car against his hip was enough to send him sprawling into the gutter, and as he looked up, all he could see was the cool red of the tail lights as it sped off into the distance. Didn’t even bother to stop. He sat up, pulling a half empty bottle of vodka from a pocket and taking a deep swig before muttering in a surly snarl, “Fucker.”

It had started to rain – that light mist that settles on everything, making you wet before you know it. He fished around in his pocket, dirty fingers closed around the lone five-dollar note there. It would be enough toe buy himself a drink at the bar across the road, he thought, and if he nursed it all night, he could stay out of the rain for a time. Carefully stowing away the bottle, he crossed the road and looked up at the sign over the door. There in big, bold, garish letters read the words:

KARAOKE NITE TONITE
Come as your favorite star, or come just as you are! All welcome!

He grimaced, imagining it – but, hang on! He listened. It was loud in the place – loud with lots of laughter and shouting. This was going to work to his advantage. They’d be too busy to notice he didn’t buy any drinks. He’d be set for the night, and so with a smile, he slid through the door.

The music hit him as soon as he walked in, loud and wailing. A very drunk Jim Morrison was singing, only half into the microphone and slurring the words, a bad rendition of “Roadhouse Blues”, while pushing away a rather tired looking hooker every time she tried to get a grope in. Ordering a beer at the bar, he smiled as the bartender barely gave him a second glance before thrusting the beer to him and hurrying off. Flashing a small grin of triumph to himself, he noticed the bartender hadn’t taken the five bucks, and so he palmed it with practised ease as he found a seat. It was in a back booth where, although he could see the comings and goings easily, not much could be seen of him. Good, he thought as he fingered the bottle in his pocket again. Good. He made himself comfortable with the beer and settled back to watch.

Up on the makeshift stage, Jim was still singing. This time, a small group of girls were dancing in front of him in a tired way. They looked barely out of school, but he shrugged as he took another swallow of vodka. Kids grew up so fast nowadays. Fifteen or twenty-five, you couldn’t tell the difference.

A Marilyn lookalike drifted past him in a heady swirl of perfume, her arm over a painfully thin young man with vacant drug filled eyes. She kept whispering in his ear – “Boo boop be do”.

It was all so surreal, he thought as he took yet another swig, unable to keep his eyes from a fat Elvis – obviously the Vegas years – arguing with the bartender. There was even a Jimi Hendrix lookalike yelling to Jim that it was his turn now. Jim shrugged, dropping the microphone, flipping the bird, and lurching off stage, where he collapsed into a booth in a headlong sprawl. The wrong song came out of the speakers, causing Jimi to scream at the bartender as T-Rex’s “Get It On” blared out, and he suppressed a laugh, imagining Jimi in a feather boa like Marc Bolan had worn. The bartender, still arguing with Elvis, waved a hand in Jimi’s direction before flipping the switch on a tired stereo that had seen better days, and peace won as “Hey, Joe” came wafting out.

A couple of young guys in tired, torn, matted sweaters came in, and he peered closer, but – nah, they had just come as themselves, he decided as they took a seat joining the hookers. He watched, fascinated, as a faded gold sandal was slipped from a fishnet-encased foot and walked up one guy’s legs. Lucky guy was going to score tonight, he thought. Mind you, by the looks of her, even he could have afforded her with that five bucks of his. She seemed desparate.

The door banged open again, with a, “Fuck you all!” screamed out before it had even shut, and he grinned. Now Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen lurched through the crowd of school girls, pushing them out of the way despite the girls’ protests. Yeah, he knew those two. Heroes of his youth, were Sid and Nancy. This should be good. He would have to come here more often if it was.

The night wore on, with more and more people coming through the door. Some, like Sid, he recognized straight away. Some he didn’t, leaving him unsure who they had come as. Opera singer, one chick was, and she was immediately booed off the sagging stage. Well, what did she expect, in a place like this? Hardly Paris, was it? But she took it good-naturedly and left without a fuss. And still more streamed in, a real cross-mix of life to watch.

Karaoke certainly brought them all out, he thought. Must be great for business. He wondered if it was a weekly thing, then sighed, watching fur coats rub shoulders with ripped jeans while gold lamé mingled with peace T-shirts and dirty sneakers. Sure does take all sorts.

The night passed in a blur of mixed drinks – vodka washed down with beer, and a swipe of several glasses of wine as he made his way to the toilets and back again. It didn’t matter to him what he drank, so long as there was plenty of it, and he neatly took a cocktail from the edge of the table closest to him. The warm glow of alcohol had dulled the edges of his life, as it always did, and he let himself drift along, caught up some music from the Fifties. Not bad, he thought drunkenly.

Around four or five, maybe even six – he didn’t know for sure – it started to thin out. People were either leaving or falling asleep at the tables, and the bartender wearily wandered the floor, avoiding pools of dried vomit and piss as he collected glasses. As the man passed over his glass, he gave a grin and a, “Tough night, huh?”

The bartender cracked a weary smile.

“Nah, not really. It always gets like this when there’s a bad accident. Some drunk got himself run over down the street. Died. But it brings all these fucking ghosts out. Half of them -” He jerked his thumb at the sleeping Elvis. “- refuse to believe they’re fucking dead yet, either.”