Chapter Seven, Part I

"There are only two times when I drink beer, when I'm alone and when I'm with someone else."
-Anonymous
"The worse you are at thinking, the better you are at drinking."
-Terry Goodkind
"I fear the man who drinks water and so remembers this morning what the rest of us said last night."
-Greek proverb

Jake decided after an unusually painful session of Constitutional Law that he would attend this week's TGIT at The Eagle's Nest, the western boundary of the infamous Bermuda Triangle. That and a Commercial Law midterm (an hour-long test emphasizing rapid-fire recall of UCC Article Nine statutes) which Jake found unnecessary. Attending an actual TGIT was a rare occasion for Jake. Drinking alcohol costs a lot and Jake was picky about keeping a tight ship on budgeting money. When he did attend a TGIT, he limited himself to no more than two drinks as after two drinks, he didn't function very well. Social functioning with drunks can be divided into two categories: the stupid yet happy drunk and the violent yet moody drunk. Stupid yet happy drunks were the ones who sang karaoke real loudly, danced on tables, and did acts that got them on shows like Jerry Springer or videos like Totally Stupid Acts Caught on Tape, maybe Girls Gone Wild. Violent yet moody drunks were the ones who brooded a lot, seemed to become decidedly unsociable, and exploded suddenly. Jake belonged in the violent and moody drunk category.
Excessive amounts of alcohol made him lose his sense of self-control, and once he lost his self-control, he became a dangerous person, a land mine that caused havoc indiscriminately. The self-control switch was the same switch that controlled the explosive personality. He didn't want to be in the newspaper for committing one of the many alcohol-influenced crimes like DUI, assault and battery, or destruction of property.
One could categorize the three bars of the Bermuda Triangle as having different styles. Jake seriously doubted this assertion as he considered bars as places where large number of people drank way too much alcohol and did very dumb things while drunk. There might be some truth to this statement, but Jake really didn't see it.
For instance, The Lion was the classic college drinking place. On a Friday night or a weekend, the endless line of college students poured through the doors, some of them underage students with fake IDs. Because of the number of fake IDs, the owners of The Lion installed a large number of security cameras and maintained three or four bouncers at the door. Even with all of the precautions, the Alcoholic Beverage Control officers found several underage drinkers every so often. Most of the students who catered to The Lion were of the sorority/fraternity types and those with an Ambercrombie and Finch-heavy wardrobe.
Taylor's on the other hand, is the no-frills, dive bar kind of place you'd visit if you were on parole. On the outside, it looks like an off-the-interstate honky-tonk or roadhouse with the wooden paneling mixed with the run-down fence, the concrete patio, and cheap outdoor furniture. A trucker or a biker might find themselves at home. Inside, the bar continues the theme. Like any bar, Taylor's has the dart boards and Golden Tee arcade machines. The tables are rough around the edges, with carved initials and layers of graffiti covering every surface. The scrawl of graffiti contines up the wall, all the way to the ceiling. The atmosphere is loud, with classic rock blaring through the speakers. The food (something most people don't frequent bars for) is salty and greasy, all the better to absorb the alcohol. It's plain and common stuff like fries, burgers, and pizza. The beer, which is cheap, cold and plentiful, brings the people in. Alumni, during Homecoming, visit this establishment and have a beer with the future alumni. After fifty years, Taylor's remains the same place with the same dingy charm.
The Eagle's Nest, on the other hand, is one of those places that defies description. Like the sports bar, The Eagle's Nest has several big screen TVs set on ESPN or whatever channel is showing the good games. During basketball season, The Eagle's Nest opens at noon and closes at 3 AM. Pool tables, dartboards, and foosball tables get heavy use. The Eagle's Nest has a small stage, where local bands play music ranging from classic rock to punk to jazz to rhythm and blues. Like the neighborhood bar or tavern, you have the locals and regular customers occupying certain spots, reading the paper, smoking cigarettes, and drinking a beer or two. The bartenders--all knowledgeable and friendly--know what you drink, your name, and what you do. Whether it's a straight 12 year old Scottish whiskey on the rocks with a splash of water to a personal creation of your own devise, they will make it to your exacting specifications without fail. There's the seedy elegance of the polished mahogany bar, the classic stained glass lights, and the hardwood floors with a slight sheen of wax. To balance this out, there's the stainless steel shelves holding artfully arranged liquor bottles of all types and a patio that could double as a cafe in Paris with its wrought-iron tables and chairs and big umbrellas. The eclectic style and mellow atmosphere bring in the customers without fail.

Jake walked up to the bar, sat in a chair and got the bartender's attention. The bartender, a blond-haired male who looked like he graduated from high school and not of legal drinking age, greeted Jake and recited that night's special, martinis for $2.50.
Being a fanatical drink purist, Jake asked what they put in the martinis. He couldn't stand the endless combinations that people considered martinis. The Cosmopolitan with vodka and cranberry juice; the Chocolate martini with Stoli Vanilla, Bailey's, and creme de cacao with a squirt of chocolate syrup; and God forbid, a martini made without gin or vodka. If it didn't contain just gin and vermouth or just vodka and vermouth, it wasn't a martini. A properly made martini should be ice-cold, crystal clear and not some shade of pink or blue like the too-sweet "rum-tinis" that certain Mexican restaurants plied on customers. The vermouth had to be plain vermouth and not sweet vermouth, which made the drink a funny shade of pink. Jake also hated vodka flavored with citrus, pepper, currant, or any of the many flavors that distilleries came up with. Vodka, to Jake, was a distilled, neutral-tasting, clear alcohol generally made from grain or potato. Note that there was no mention of flavoring or specific odor. Any bartender guide that said "any white liquor" was heretical, sort of like the many Bible versions that were banned like the "Sin on More" Bible of old England.
"That depends on what you want. We've got Cosmos, chocolate, sour apple, and many more."
"How about a plain martini?"
"A plain one?"
"Yes, a plain one. You know." The bartender looked confused. Jake suspected that people didn't order standard, old school drinks without foolish names like Sex on the Beach or flavored liquors. "Four parts vodka, one part white vermouth. Shaken with lots of ice and strained into a ice-cold martini glass. Add a twist of lemon peel. No olive. Oh, and by vodka, none of the flavored stuff."
"You sure you want that? People generally don't want that."
Jake was annoyed. Of course he wanted that. He specifically asked for a plain martini. If he didn't want a plain martini without frills, he would have asked for something else.
"Yes, I want a plain martini." He raised his voice. "If I didn't want it, do you think I would ask for one?"
The bartender didn't move. It became apparent the bartender didn't believe Jake's request for a plain martini. It was totally unoriginal. This was one of the few times that Jake cursed progress. Cars are good. Cellphones, he could tolerate, but barely. Martinis made with God knows what, Jake found intolerable. Jake decided he was going nowhere with this route. He decided to change his drink order.
"Forget that. Do you make margaritas?"
"Sure. We make those. We've got them in several flavors."
This was getting worse. Jake hated flavored margaritas that most people considered the "real thing." He blamed Mexican-American restaurants for this bane on a perfectly good drink. The "margarita" they served at these places that served inauthentic food heavy on cheese and sour cream, and not much on flavors other than salt and spice, were neon-colored mix-based pretenders. The authentic margarita consisted of tequilla (preferably Jose Cuervo Gold), Cointreau or Triple Sec, sour mix and a bit of lime juice. This sublime mixture of alcohol and lime juice is served cold in a glass with a salted rim. It didn't have the slushy texture or the fake flavors of a Slurpee at 7-11. Some Mexican restaurants served a more authentic version, but they substituted Sprite or some other citrus soda for the Cointreau. To be nitpicky, it wasn't a margarita, but more of a tequilla gimlet. This wasn't apt either, as a gimlet was gin and lime juice. There was no soda water in an authentic gimlet. Jake didn't like these margaritas any more than the Mexican-American restaurant version. He had the feeling that the bartender didn't know what an authentic margarita was. It was time to change his drink order to a beer, a nice Guinness.
"Forget that. Do you have Guinness?"
The bartender looked at a laminated sheet of paper and replied, "We do, but it's only in bottles."
Guinness in bottles. The traditionalist in Jake almost cringed in horror. Guinness should come from a tap and done in a way such that the amount of head is minimized. Ideally, it should only be a quarter-inch thick, though some places allow a half-inch of head. Bottled Guinness was fine given the circumstances. Jake hoped they kept the Guinness slightly chilled and not ice-cold like other beers. Stouts like Guinness, for some reason, just didn't taste good when it was ice-cold.
Jake said, "Give me a Guinness."
The bartender bent under the bar and opened a refrigerator door. He brung out a bottle of Guinness and handed it to Jake. He inwardly cringed when he felt the bottle of Guinness; it was ice-cold, almost freezing. They couldn't serve a Guinness properly. Flavored margaritas that bore no resemblance to the authentic drink. Even worse, the endless variations on a classic martini.
"That will be 2.50 for your Guinness."
Jake took out his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill. The bartender rang up the total on the cash register and gave Jake his change. Jake put the change and his wallet back into his pocket. He decided to wait for a few minutes for his Guinness to warm up to a proper temperature. Drinking it at this stage would ruin a perfectly good Guinness experience.
**********
Jake chose a seat facing the windows facing the patio. This location was a relatively quiet area in the bar. On a busy night, The Eagle's Nest had the sound level of Cameron during a rowdy North Carolina-Duke basketball game. Then again, any North Carolina-Duke basketball game got extremely loud and chaotic. When both teams were vying for the number one spot in the basketball polls, the arena they were playing became a giant sonic hurricane and the rafters literally shook. For those not inclined towards college basketball (except when it was March Madness and the best time to join an office pool), a rollicking arena concert like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band during the eighties was another fine example. When Springsteen sang "Born in the USA" and Max Weinberg slammed his sticks on the snares, the crowd went wild. It was a literal "wall of sound" started by Phil Spector, the famed music producer. You couldn't hear anything. In addition to the fine view, he could walk a few steps and walk out onto the patio. This was one of the better ways to escape. Thankfully, the owners extended the patio so that people could walk down some steps and easily get to the street.
He decided to people-watch, one of the more enjoyable things to do at a bar, if one is not inclined to playing games like darts or the more general activity of trying to hook up with members of the opposite sex. Most likely, given this was a college town, they were under the legal drinking age. Jake heard some pick-up lines that were ridiculously cheesy like the Velveeta-based sauce served with nachos at county fairs, movie theaters, and other places known for their high-quality food. At least one could detect a bit of originality with the cheesiness. The really bad pick-up lines were the overused and overprocessed ones. Those pick-up lines were like the day-glo orange powder that came in the packets commonly found in a box of macaroni and cheese. Just like the slogan for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, these pick-up lines were the cheesiest. Jake didn't use pick-up lines. He prefered normal conversational things like "Hello." You sounded normal and it greatly reduced the odds of getting slapped in the face of having a drink tossed in your face.

The mix of people at The Eagle's Nest was eclectic, with nearly every sub-group of people that live in your average college town with a leaning towards liberal and libertarian tendencies. There were the young hippie faction (the liberal, free-spirit college types with long hair and tie-dye) congregating outside on the patio smoking what appeared to be cigarettes of the legal type. Jake could be wrong, but he assumed that people were doing legal activities and not criminal ones. The jet-set trendsetters, wearing the latest styles and drinking small-batch liquors made by traditional methods and designer cocktails that were currently cool in Los Angeles and New York, occupied the area by the patio windows. Jake could hear their conversations about the latest fashion from Gucci and the must-have fall fashions they saw in Vogue. They were tolerable up to a certain degree, but after a while, one got tired of their endless droning about current fashion. The sports fans congregated around the big screen TVs and the pool tables, watching ESPN and downing Budweisers and Coors. The preppily dressed (both male and females) were college students in general and they occupied the area by the main bar. Some broke off from the main mass by the bar and slowly spread to outlying areas. The men were wearing khakis or jeans and collared shirts of all types. Jake noticed a trend about how the men wore their shirts. If they were polo shirts, they were striped and with the collars popped-up. Why people wore collars popped-up, he would never understand. If they were button-downs, they were in pastels like pink, yellow, and blue.
"Aren't ya in my Evidence class?"
Jake tested the temperature of his Guinness with the palm of his hand. He touched it for a few seconds and he judged the beer to be at an acceptable temperature. He popped the cap off and took a long swallow. After swallowing, he looked up and judged the face in front of him. It was someone he recognized.
Jake answered, "Yes, yes I am. The name is Jake."
"Hello, Jake. My name is Matthew Beauford. You can call me Matt." Jake detected the Southern accent. It wasn't an exaggerated, almost-comical, good-ol'-boy accent found in shows like The Dukes of Hazzard, but a more cultured one. It's the buttermilk and cornbread accent, when combined with the Southern gentleman charm (old-fashioned values without the habit of twenty-pace duels when their honor was injured in some obscure way), that makes women swoon.
"Nice to meet you Matt. You're from Tulane Law School, right?"
"Yes. I would be there now, but hurricanes don't leave many options, do they?"
"They don't. You sound Southern, but you don't sound like a New Orleans native."
Jake spent a week in New Orleans--not during Mardi Gras season--but during the summer. He should have planned his trip during the spring or fall, but his schedule didn't allow much free time during these seasons. Despite the weather being miserably hot and humid, Jake had a wonderful time and had many fond memories of the city. Then again, one could have a marvelous time in New Orleans any time of the year. While he was there, he noticed the long-time residents didn't sound very Southern. Instead, Jake noted, the locals sounded like they were transplanted from Brooklyn, New York.
"That's correct. Born in Lafayette, Lousiana. How'd ya know that?"
Jake said, "I spent some time in New Orleans. I could give you some phonetic examples. You don't say er instead of oi. You don't drop er from words like mother and father." He drank some more beer and continued. "You don't say po' boy with lots of my-a-nez or any other traditional phrases in your conversation. Southerners don't say those things."
"I see. You seem to know quite a bit. Say, I've got a few questions to ask ya. First, what's up with the drinking laws around here? I liked the go-cups they had in New Orleans. I could take my drink with me. Second, what was that word you used in Evidence?"
"You've spent too much time in New Orleans. It's a party town where most citizens lassiez les bons temps rouler. It's odd when you think about it. The Deep South never left the city. It's just an everchanging and modern version, but with a higher emphasis on drive-through daquiri stands and handguns in the inner city. Most cities and towns in the US don't allow half of the stuff they do in New Orleans. At least they have DUI laws in the city. I'm very sure Lafayette, Louisina didn't allow drinking in the streets, now did they?"
"Now that ya' mention it, New Orleans has a different sense of normal. I guess laws here ain't that unusual. What about that word ya' used in Evidence again?"
"Phrenology. The French came up with weird stuff."
"Yeah, that's it. Phrenology. Forget it. I can't remember it. I'll just call it the head bump dealie."
Jake laughed. "Might as well call it that." He noticed two girls looking in Matt's direction. "You've got two girls looking at you. Go and use that Southern charm on them. You'll drive them wild with that accent you've got."
Matt drawled, "Now you're talkin'. Want me to reel one in for ya'? Sharing what you catch is good."
Jake shook his head. "I'm seeing someone right now. You know what they say. One female plus one female doesn't equal two. It means zero females. And a load of trouble."
"But that's the fun part. Not to be nosy, but who are ya' seeing?"
"Her name is Clarissa. She goes to the law school."
"Clarissa? The blond girl in Evidence class? Tall? Good looking?"
Jake nodded. "Yes, that Clarissa."
Matt whistled. "Damn. Lucky man. You've got yourself a handful." He turned around and winked at the females by the bar. "A Southern male can't resist hunting season. I'll see you later in Evidence."
Matt waved goodbye and plunged headfirst into the crowd gathering by the bar. A minute later, he was chatting with the two females, laying a heavy dose of the Southern charm on them. Two minutes after that, he had one girl hanging on each arm.