If Frank Sinatra was here, he’d know what to do after the whiskey bottle spills its last drop into my glass. The other drop, the one that won’t go into any glass but clings to the neck and crawls down the side, staining the label, he’d know what to do with that. He’d explain to us all how to tip our hats.
His Rat Pack would sing and swing and I’d follow them to some swanky club. Smoke filled, in a comfortable booth, we’d laugh at the expense of some schmuck who spilled on his tie. Frank would never loosen his and I’d never wear mine. The moon would hit our eyes like a big pizza pie and I’d know exactly what to do.
We’d arrive in a big, black Lincoln with suicide doors. Everybody would clap and I’d know exactly how to handle it. My Camel Straights would pile in the pocket of my dinner jacket and I’d be able to smoke anywhere I wanted. There would always be a gold-plated Cartier lighter handy. The skirts and twirls would make eyes and a bottle of the house’s finest would be sent to our table from some big shot butter-and-egg man who wanted to impress.
Martini shakers would gleam in the dim light like scepters held by the kings of the night. Frosty cold and full of the finest gasoline, my glass would paint a ring on the napkin in front of me while I thanked the bartender by name and greased his palm like I do every night.
If Frank Sinatra was here, I would have better things to do than write. My glass wouldn’t be empty and I wouldn’t have to step outside to smoke. There wouldn’t be a coffee table stacked with bills or the sound of the refrigerator clicking on. It would be nothing but smooth sailing and glasses clinking without the cold reminder of loneliness.
But Old Blue Eyes isn’t here and my brown eyes just can’t seem to see what’s next. I guess I’ll pay those bills and see what’s in the ‘fridge. Smooth sailing will exist in the scratched record that I keep starting over and on the pages of this dream that I write because the bottle is empty and that last drop didn’t make it in my glass.