My little red Gothic boat 

Was hankering for something to eat some night. So I hopped off the tunnelbana and slid into a little jazz cellar by Zinkensdamm where I got talking to cash-only guy. Said his name was Jonas. “Jonas, Jonas Jonasson,” he said. Blonde hair, sheepskin jacket. Blonde Jonas I called him. 

He kept on at me, boasting about how he never carried credit cards but for a wad of kronor in his pocket. When he nooked down his left shoulder, hand still in glove, he pulled a two hundred bearing the face of Ingmar Bergman for libations. I’d never clapped eyes on such a sweaty wad of money. 

“I have a boat by Liljeholmen,” he announced before turning to the waitress waving Bergman in the air. 

“Two Bryggs please, miss.” 

Seemed she was blanking him in lieu of his little bartop faux pas. “TWOOOO… Bryggggss,” he said again, stroppy like a fucking teenager. “A boat?” I replied quickly, a little embarrassed for him. 

The waitress yielded to avoid a scene.

“Yeah, man. It’s a little red gothic one with red squares and a Swedish flag on it. Next time you’re down there— keep an eye out for it.” 

I nodded. 

Just let him talk. 

Seemed he hadn’t in a while. 

Gradually he started to come across like a proud luddite. Wasn’t sure if he was aware that I was aware of his contrivance in doing so. Partly out of ignorance, mostly obstinance. 

Then he started on ‘bout my jacket— the sheepskin. Used to be his Dad’s. Dirty as fuck. I didn’t mind the talk at the time ‘cause I was shoveling battered fish and mushy peas down my gullet to soak up the booze in anticipation of the jazz emanating from the basement. Plus I planned on cadging him a tab or two, so— continued listening/drifting through that forced endearment one towards barflies. 

Eventually put two and two. 

Figured he was back in town sorting an estate like a will or something like that when he said:

“…And my little red gothic boat can’t float for shit,” he continued. “Can’t float, won’t sink!” 

“Well, what about a boat that floats straight but never has to sail anywhere?” Interjected the waitress, placing the drinks curtly on the bar. 

There was a pregnant pause. 

“Great bar-tops,” he said. 

The jazz was great.