When I Was A Rum Guy

I’m Not a Rum Guy Anymore. I’m a Wine guy now. I always have been. Except, of course, for the time when I was a Rum guy.

A strong, brave, cold-hearted Rum guy. A double on the rocks. Soda is for the faint-hearted has-beens, them broken hearted lovers, the failed husbands, weak men who apologise before entering rooms. Noobs.

As if Rum requires permission.

Back then, sometimes, I would lie down naked on the rooftop at night time with a bottle of Rum in one hand, a cigarette in another, and curse the Gods, provoking them to hit me down with all their wrath and anger.

Not politely.

Not poetically.

They never did, though. Either they didn’t exist, or they were too scared to face me. I would be too scared to face me too.

“Come on then,” I’d scream. “Do it. Strike me down. Do something. Show me what ya got!”

The Gods never came. Cowards!

All I managed to do was confuse a couple of street Dogs down below.

They stood near the street lamp the first night, heads tilted, tongues out, looking at me like I was a prophet. I know that because I heard them mutter the word.

By the third night, four more had joined.

By the end of the week, there were twelve. A full fucking committee.

The word traveled fast amongst the Dogs. I heard rumours, there were whispers about me, quiet talks:

“You have to see this.”

“Heard about the naked human having a spectacular breakdown at nights?”

“The naked human is fighting the sky again.”

And so they came.

Night after night.

Like a free reality TV, no fucking ads.

A proper watch-party.

I was their cinema. Their theatre. The naked broadway. Their national award-winning tragedy. I was their fucking Shakespeare.

It was glorious, I presume.

…..

The Cats, of course, didn’t care.

Cats never care.

Them Cats behave like they’ve seen it all. “Naked guy having a spectacular breakdown? Seen that shit!” Some probably even lived that shit. Who knows?

I was Repetitive TV for them. A remake. A second copy. Uninteresting shit you scroll through. A Valium. A Decaf.

One of them glanced at me once.

“Yep, I’d rather let the cold, heartless reality engulf me entirely as I waste away pondering through the existential questions about Death, time, and Bitcoins than watch this absurdity unfold before me,” she muttered under her breath as she walked away bored.
I know that because I heard her.

That is the thing about Cats.

They always look like they are on an eternal quest to solve the most complicated questions of the universe.

They do not concern themselves with mundane things like a naked drunk man dancing on a rooftop, challenging deities who have clearly blocked his WhatsApp.

Or do they lack democracy over there and use their own apps and softwares? Who the fuck knows at this point!

Anyway, Cats should learn to chill.

But then again, maybe they are the ones holding this whole universe together with deep and dark spells of old.

I have heard the murmurs.

But anyway.

I’m not a Rum guy anymore.

I’m a Wine guy now.

A sophisticated, blue-collared, tightly clenched, leather-jacket, sunglasses-in-the-night Wine guy. I’m what Alex Turner wishes to be, if he had no money, style, skill, talent, and voice.

A man with three serums, two perfumes, one existential crisis, and zero peace.

A complete and utter ruin. But, well moisturised, nonetheless.

These days, I would rather spend half my salary on expensive clothes and a million hair and skincare products, only to get punched in the face by some sidewalk punk with honest knuckles who smells of cheap whiskey and hand rolled cigarettes.

“I’m calling the cops,” I’d mutter through my makeup-melted, tear-covered face.

Then he would punch me again.

And again.

And again. Into oblivion.

That’s how I fall asleep these days.

Pills are for faint-hearted has-beens!

…..

The Dogs don’t care about this version of me, though.

They don’t gather anymore.

No committees. No respectful silence, and quiet expectations before the performance.

Sometimes they take turn pissing on me, like the old fans disillusioned with the artist’s new directions. Bring back the good ‘ol stuff!

It ain’t glorious anymore.

Thankfully the expensive moisturisers help.

I’m not a Rum guy anymore.

Those were the good times. Crazy memories. Terrified neighbors. Undiagnosed hypothermia.

Apparently, I became the primary character in a best-selling novel amongst the Dog community. A book aptly titled “Bow Bow”.

A brief but important phase in local Dog literature.

I received no money, by the way. I did receive a frisbee, though.

I found it outside my door one morning. I didn’t like it. So I threw it away at night.

When I woke up the next morning, it was back in my hands. This has happened several times. Still does, every once in a while.

I do not want to talk about it.

Sometimes, when I sit in my room, pouring the Wine in my glass, smelling the hint of cherries, oaks, the charred fuck and what not, I feel the watch-party is still out there.

Lurking in the dark. In anticipation. A hope, a dream, an expectation.

Waiting.

Behind Garbage bags. Under the Cars. Over the Cars. Near the flickering streetlights.

Waiting.

Not barking. In silence.

Just waiting.

I’m not a Rum guy anymore.

But, them Dogs don’t seem to care.

They push me, drive me, provoke me.

Slowly, patiently, tactically.

They remember the rooftop.

They remember the Rum.

Maybe they want a sequel.

Maybe “Bow Bow 2” is already in the works, and they are looking for inspiration.

Maybe I’m the George R. R. Martin to their Game of Thrones.

Maybe I’m the J.K. Rowling to their Harry Potter.

Maybe it’s the younger Dogs, or the new ones from far away lands, presumably from the next street and beyond who have heard the legends.

“Is it true?” they must ask their elders. “Was he really such a simp?”

“Yes,” the old Dogs would say with twinkle in their eyes. “And he was the greatest one.”

I’m not a Rum guy anymore. I’m a Wine guy now.

A clean man. A soft man. A heavily scented man. I’m a well moisturised man now with impeccable skin, black eyes, and broken nose.

BUT…

One of these nights, when the punches aren’t hard enough to put me to sleep, the bottle is cheap, the sky moonlit like it was 2013 again, and the Gods don’t reply to my WhatsApp messages.

Who knows?

I might just be a Rum guy once again, and it would be glorious!