Gregory Riggs

Gregory Riggs looked around the dark, smoky, woodsy bar. There was no tobacco smell, only beer, pretensions and metaphors. The visible smoke came from a hidden fog machine. Good decision by the management, thought Gregory, the smoke makes the place feel authentic.

This new place was a different new place for Gregory. There wasn’t a band onstage, but rather one of a rotating slew of poets. The audience kept intrigued eyes to the front, anxious to hear the validations of like-minded bohemians. In this perpetually cynical bar, culture was key. That is, if culture is the denouncement of pop culture.

A new poet took the microphone as Gregory took a seat--both had a pitcher of beer. Here, words were currency. Those with the most to boast or confessed the best, were the winners. Making this poet a string-hair, vintage-wearing Rockefeller. The word slinger’s spit shot searing holes through various unnecessary pillars of society. With a vocabulary strength not seen this side of the Daniel Webster era, the proudly polarizing performer tried to start a start a suburban fight on this suburban night. Gregory was impressed and had another beer, non-light.

The next poet knew he was lost in the shoes he had to fill. The void left on stage was the size of the city inside the bar. The new truth-sayer joked about needing liquid courage. At this point, Gregory noticed that nobody had actually said the words “beer” or “alcohol” since he entered some time ago. Gregory focused his ears toward the bartender and the drink requests. Amazing. A pint of liquor courage. A pitcher of liquor courage. A shot of liquor courage--I’m performing next, so actually make it a double.

With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.

Gregory Riggs entered the dance club after waiting in line outside for like ever. He was like, so amazed at like how many people were there. The music was so loud but he loved the song that was playing. Gregory noticed a basketball player standing by one of the tables. Man, that guy is really tall, thought Gregory.

People weren’t trying to be rude, but there were a lot of people. In fact, there was almost as much bumping and grinding on the dance floor as there was by the bar. That’s kind of funny. Gregory pushed his way to the bar in the bar. Man, that’s really confusing he thought—“the bar in the bar”. Gregory ordered a cup of Tonight’s Special (PBR) and looked around for anybody he knew. He recognized a girl from his stats class. She was hot.

Hey, Gregory said, as friendly yet unenthusiastically as he could. Hey, she offered back perfectly. It’s Greg from your stats class. Oh yeah? I thought I recognized you. Yeah. This place is pretty cool. Yeah. A lot of people. Yeah. Yeah.

The silent pause in conversation reminded Greg how loud the place was. Want to dance? He asked. Don’t you have a drink there? No, I finished it. So do you want to dance? No, no thank you. I’m don’t really feel like dancing. I’m waiting for a friend. Oh, that’s cool. Hey, I’ll see you in class next week. Yeah, definitely.

With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.

Gregory Riggs entered his kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle of rum that he bought earlier that week—as the liquor store sells rum 5% off every Tuesday.

Not having enough money to do anything new tonight, Gregory put in an old movie and opened his bottle of rum. Twenty minutes later, the movie froze and a new message read: “Unable to read disc.”

With a roll of his eyes, Gregory drank a little more and woke up on his couch the next morning.