Two Fools on a Barstool Patio

Andrew Mies
3 min readFeb 28, 2022
Pexels: Gustavo Fring

Two fools on a barstool patio. Hard to blame them for their appearance, they don’t know any better.

Neither do you.

They sit and smile at each other, three plastic cubs stacked, holding their latest Bud Light, the only thing they drink other than a Jameson shot when feeling higher class. The whisky of the masses, masses of fools like them who know no better, but masses all the same.

Lovers, friends, roommates, what’s the difference? Quality time is spent here, on a barstool patio with an oak, yes a tree, growing through the middle of it. Where? Some semi-suburban hell hole on the outskirts of a city full of “More important than you’s”. Don’t worry about the name, you’d forget it anyway.

They talk about the game, did you see it? What an ending, can you believe the call? Who makes that decision? Did they want to lose?

Funny they ask those last two questions to the objectively successful, never to anyone who objectively isn’t, like themselves.

4 plastic cups.

Start the music. To them, some shmuck on a stool, singing about homemade trans-fat chicken. They nod, it’s what you do when the guitar guy plays a song your brain recognizes. One quick raise of the eyebrows, an upward flick followed by a few side to side bobs before returning to the rotation of TV, beer, no notifications and someone on the patio, partner added every 10th or so loop to make a small attempt at humor.

The horror.

Suddenly the woman looks at her man, eyes slightly glazed, posture noticeably bad, and says it.

“Dakota”

He blinks, unsure if he’s heard her correctly.

Deadpanned, domestic drain water on her breath, she says it again.

“Excuse me, can we check out? Hello, can I get the check?”

Card down, swiped, signed. The two fools climb in their Camry and take off to home, to bed, to an unscheduled dirty.

Yet another couple who’s ruined and doesn’t know it. Doesn’t see it. How don’t they see it? It’s so clear. So clear.

The server walks past and asks if I need another drink. I smile and say yes please, finishing off my Woodford and handing her the insisted upon rocks glass.

As she walks away, I wonder if she knows. It’s so hard to see who’s got it, some sure bets are just as empty headed as the fools, but she may, something about her eyes and the quickness of response.

I finish tuning, hit a chord and let the people know this is one I wrote.

Most heads couldn’t care less, patio full of the lost, but one or two perk up. The fire sparks in me. Maybe they know. Maybe they’ve seen. Maybe they’re about too…

If they only could see what I know
If I could break through resistance and show
The cracks in the altar, the rise from below
The endless and echoing call from the moat
The edges of eras are folding and still
The foolish are prideful, the pieces of shit!
Yes, I’m done rhyming, all words are the same
You break it, we want it, destroy the machine

Hold the final chord, let the strings ring out.

A few meager claps… Fools… Fools…

The Woodford arrives. I sip. I elevate. I contemplate.

Life’s hard for the existential asperationalist.

The bills have to be paid.

“Heading down South to the land of the pines…”

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