Clap. Clap.
Mungo Gordon was constitutionally incapable of entering a room without clapping his hands to map the acoustics.
Clap. Clap.
He stood at the entrance of Emmit’s Pub with his head c****d at an angle as he listened to the space. He took another step, clapped again. Listened. Glancing around the room at the placement of the speakers as if he was looking for snipers, he reached into his pocket and shoved a pair of earplugs into his ears. Then, and only then, did he scan the shifting weeknight crowd to find me.
“Mungo!” I had to shout over the noise. I stood up from the bar to wave him over.
It annoyed me how much I blended in here: as if blue hair and facial piercings and full sleeve tattoos were the new normal. Or, at least, the new ironic normal for 2012 in the same way thi
