chez bruno (streaming consciousness while slightly drunk in a barcelona bar watching the world cup)

at chez bruno a pirate and a dwarf sit together at the bar like the premise of a bad joke watching americans and slovenians battle silently on out-of-sync TVs. a russian transvestite waitress delivers drinks according to some unknowable scheme but mostly just flirts with the regulars. I am definitely an irregular. I stare at a bleached-out advertisement for doner kebabs while the tinny reprise of a murder mystery rings in my head. It always starts with somebody getting knifed. a slovenian writhes in pain so I get up to take a piss. taped to the back of the bathroom door is a poster of a topless girl in a ref's uniform. when I return to my seat, my table is cleared off and my beer is gone. do they want me to leave? the dwarf nimbly scales an empty barstool to grab some mayonnaise. The US side scores late and I cheer much too loudly and with such hostility that I am immediately embarrassed. But then just minutes later the US threatens again and I bellow just the same. I am ugly here yet I feel right at home. the girl from california at the next table has already turned on me. I am who she always complains about to her Spanish friends, the reason why she says she'll never move back to the states even though she will. the game ends suddenly with nothing much settled but the anxiety persists. I leave five euros on the bar and lurch out into the sprawling construction of the Passeig de Sant Joan. man, it's bright outside.