Finishing a few phrases in a beat-up composition notebook, Travis shuts it and looks toward the entrance of the Engine Room where Nick and John are making there way toward him. “ER” as the boys call it, is about like it sounds. There is an emergency room sign hanging on the back wall—of unknown origin. The whole place is lit with the bare minimum illumination required for human vision and is filled to the brim with knicknacks and show posters of most of the bands from Athens—everything from R.E.M. and the B-52s to a few flyers from John’s band and Travis’s shows. Despite the atmosphere of the place—black walls built around a barroom brawl waiting to happen—the conversation tends toward art and the meaning of life.

Nick stops off at the bar to order a drink, while John walks up to Travis’s table and sets his hand on it. “Mr. Fleeting,” he says mysteriously.

“Mr. Riffing,” Travis retorts.

“We have received several disturbing reports concerning your behavior as of late.” John is looking around the bar suspiciously. Travis checks the bar as well, but nervously. “Are you from the commission?”

John nods.

“Look, you tell them that I was drunk four out of seven nights last week! I mean, what do they want from me?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to…” and John leans in for emphasis, “buy you a drink.”

“No.”

John just wrinkles his nose and nods his head. “I’m afraid so.”

“You bastard!” Travis hollers as John walks away, smiling after the words leave him. He was in that mood—his own voice didn’t bother him. A few people in the bar look to see what the commotion is, but Travis just smiles at them too, and their glances go back to their tables and companions.

Trading places with Nick at the bar, John steps up to order as Nick moves to the booth with a Jack and Coke in hand. “Hey. Been here long?” he asks Travis.

“Maybe an hour. You guys should help me finish my pitcher first.”

“Nope. Liquor only. Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh really?”

Patting his side, Nick replies, “It’s my liver.”

“What? You have one?”

“Naw. I’m trying to lose a few pounds. I figure I can rot my liver from the inside out.”

“You do need to lose some weight. My God!”

“See?” Nick says, talking to an imaginary presence next to him, “You left yourself wide open for that.”

“Well,” Travis replies, “A porous liver is a light liver is what I always say.”

“Though not a useful liver,” Nick adds.

“Useful? What’s useful? Bah. What’s a liver good for anyway?”

Nick holds up his hands in ignorance, shrugging innocently.

“Nothin’,” Travis finishes.

“Not’in’,” Nicks adds in a Brooklyn parody baritone.

Approaching the table, John sets a pint glass of beer in front of Travis and sits down next to Nick with his own. “What?” he asks, hearing the last of the conversation.

“You could settle this, John,” Travis says. “You don’t need a liver, do you?”

“I haven’t had one for three years,” John replies with a curt codgerly nod.

Nodding methodically, Nick pretends to think before he asks, “Did you have it removed?”

“No. I ate MacDonald’s for three days straight and shit it out.”

Travis almost loses his mouthful of beer through his nose as the other two laugh hard. Choking his drink down, Travis coughs a few times and manages to get out, “Man.”

Nick patiently stretches his long arm across the table, and points to Travis’ cigarettes. “Breathe those,” and then he points to the beer, “drink that. Don’t try it the other way.”

Read the whole thread: Carousel Cowboy