The Classical Wineaux Reflects on Memories of Burgers Past

The Classical Wineaux Reflects on Memories of Burgers Past

Ghost

Ere I Saw a Phantom Which Smelt of Hamburgs Past

[The Classical Wineaux is Contributing Editor Nightlife for West Texas Weekly. He drinks whiskey at a undisclosed RV Park somewhere in West Texas. His comments are opinions and fictions, and do not reflect the opinions of West Texas Weekly, its staff or its editor.]

Hola! This is the Classical Wineaux rapping at you from his ‘fifth wheel’. I got a nice bumper sticker on the back it says, “NO FAT CHICKS, BOTTOM WILL SCRAPE”. Just kidding, y’all.

I want to hoist a stein of ice-cold American lager to the following people:
-All the Roberts boys in Marathon
-Duckie and Yoel
“Bam Bam” (I’ll get you back for those 40s)

More importantly, I had a sleepless night recently where I reflected on many different things… I had eaten an old container of feta cheese and all of these strange memories burbled through my mind while I drank vodka and watched “Roseanne” on TV Land.

I realized that my life was a succession of moments… like a strand of pearls, or a beaded necklace. Some of the beads were red, when I was violent or aggressive. Some of them were white when I was tranquil and peaceful. On closer inspection of the beaded necklace, I discovered that many of them were smeared with the fragrant fat of a West Texas ‘gut-bomb’

In a snap of intuition, I realized that my life was a succession of hamburgers. Some majestically grilled in the nude, others scarfed down in back-ally greasy spoons.

My most memorable burger? I had gotten burnt in a ‘firewood’ deal in Paso Lajitas. The biggest problem was the I was going to buy the ‘firewood’ with someone else’s money. My man, Osbaldo, had taken the money and left and had not been seen in the environs for 24 hours. I had no more money and nothing to tell Roy.

I made my way to my VW van across the river and drove on empty to Study Butte. I bummed some money from Dr. Black at the Porch and drove to Uncle Joe’s. I hadn’t eaten for 36 hours and I was famished.

Do y’all remember Uncle Joe’s? Uncle Joe was a merry old soul whose open sign read “Sorry we are open”. That man, and Aunt Roberta as well, could fry a gut-bomb that would make the angels weep. I got a double cheese burger with mustard onions and pickles. The patty was greasy and thick and the onion bit into my foggy brain. The ‘firewood’ deal that went south made me weep. Why do bad things happen to good people?

I was going to sell that there firewood at about $25 for a quarter ounce so I could pay back Randy and Roy, stock up on canned goods and fill up the van.

Not enough sleep. Not enough food. Not enough love or respect.

The meat in my stomach made me content and sleepy. I curled up in the back of my VW and thought, “Hell, pal. It ain’t that bad. I got that check coming in in two weeks and I own my own home. My gut is full and my feets is warm, so stop your yapping.

A warm terlingua breeze blew in the dusk and carried the smell of hamburgers and french fries from Uncle Joe’s.

I fell asleep in my memory (that’s the Terlingua way). I then fell asleep in real life watching “Roseanne”. Then I woke up and there were some chicken wings stuck in my hair.

Peace to all bar staff, bar friends and brewers from the Classical Wineaux. Keep fryin’ them Hamburgs, fry cooks. Keep them beers cold, friends.

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