(Michelle Melanson)
Da Bio
Michelle Melanson is a winter-weary writer from Manitoba with an attachment to alliteration.
She recently received a grant from the Canada Council for the Arts to attend the Aboriginal Emerging Writers program at The Banff Centre. Michelle graduated from the Creative Communications program at Red River College in 2007 and she is hopeful she will one day put that diploma to work. She also dabbles in stand up comedy and tries to bring humour into her writing.
She is currently working on a novel. She also has a blog, please visit it at http://199wordsaday.wordpress.com/
Da Story :)
The Dirty One Thirty by Michelle Melanson He has a voice that carries, amplified perhaps by rye or vodka. It's crunch time. There's only thirty minutes left on the clock before the bar closes up and everyone stumbles home.
He is sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning in to some girl who looks thoroughly pickled. Every once in awhile he makes a move, verbal or otherwise, that makes me giggle.
"You're going to look so hot in my bed."
His lines run from pathetic confidence to plain pathetic.
"Shouldn't everyone get laid on their birthday? Don't I deserve that?"
I've been sneaking peeks at this smooth operator for at least half an hour in between my high-stakes 25 cent video poker hands. He's wearing a polyester shirt that's almost as shiny as his greasy gelled-up hair. The guy is kind of short for a guy, maybe 5'7", and although it sounds like I'm preparing a description for the cops a few days in advance, I think he's kind of cute in a slimy bar star kind of way.
Maybe I should tell him it's my birthday too.
Tonight's lucky winner is starting to slump over on top of the little round bar table in front of her. She's clearly had a couple more than she should have been served, and clearly not interested in giving this guy's mattress a test drive.
"You're so pretty. Can I give you a hug?"
"Um, no," she says.
Two-Too-Many absentmindedly chews on the ice cubes that didn't melt in the alcohol she sucked back minutes earlier. The ice clicks and clacks against her teeth before she grinds it into tiny bits and swallows hard. She looks around thoughtfully in the midst of her drunkenness, searching for an out.
"Can I get you another drink, beautiful?"
Two-Too-Many's answer is blunt and direct. "Um, no."
Mr. Hot N. Bothered looks at his watch with some desperation in his movement.
"You're going to wish you came home with me if you don't, you know."
Finally the lights come on and someone is kind enough to step between Two-Too-Many and H.N. Bothered and get the girl into a cab.
I cash in my twelve dollar and seventy five cent ticket at the wicket and make my way outside. The bar star is standing in the parking lot next to a late 90s car, angrily puffing away on a cigarette.
I smile at him and wish him a happy birthday with a slight twinge of sarcasm.
He doesn't pick up on it right away but eventually realizes I must have heard his "everyone deserves a birthday piece" bit.
I love watching people connect the dots.
"You wanna go home with me, lady?"
I unlock my car door, look at him and say, "Um, no."
He is sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning in to some girl who looks thoroughly pickled. Every once in awhile he makes a move, verbal or otherwise, that makes me giggle.
"You're going to look so hot in my bed."
His lines run from pathetic confidence to plain pathetic.
"Shouldn't everyone get laid on their birthday? Don't I deserve that?"
I've been sneaking peeks at this smooth operator for at least half an hour in between my high-stakes 25 cent video poker hands. He's wearing a polyester shirt that's almost as shiny as his greasy gelled-up hair. The guy is kind of short for a guy, maybe 5'7", and although it sounds like I'm preparing a description for the cops a few days in advance, I think he's kind of cute in a slimy bar star kind of way.
Maybe I should tell him it's my birthday too.
Tonight's lucky winner is starting to slump over on top of the little round bar table in front of her. She's clearly had a couple more than she should have been served, and clearly not interested in giving this guy's mattress a test drive.
"You're so pretty. Can I give you a hug?"
"Um, no," she says.
Two-Too-Many absentmindedly chews on the ice cubes that didn't melt in the alcohol she sucked back minutes earlier. The ice clicks and clacks against her teeth before she grinds it into tiny bits and swallows hard. She looks around thoughtfully in the midst of her drunkenness, searching for an out.
"Can I get you another drink, beautiful?"
Two-Too-Many's answer is blunt and direct. "Um, no."
Mr. Hot N. Bothered looks at his watch with some desperation in his movement.
"You're going to wish you came home with me if you don't, you know."
Finally the lights come on and someone is kind enough to step between Two-Too-Many and H.N. Bothered and get the girl into a cab.
I cash in my twelve dollar and seventy five cent ticket at the wicket and make my way outside. The bar star is standing in the parking lot next to a late 90s car, angrily puffing away on a cigarette.
I smile at him and wish him a happy birthday with a slight twinge of sarcasm.
He doesn't pick up on it right away but eventually realizes I must have heard his "everyone deserves a birthday piece" bit.
I love watching people connect the dots.
"You wanna go home with me, lady?"
I unlock my car door, look at him and say, "Um, no."
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