The Cornucopia of Dionysus
by Claude LalumièreThere's this story going around, about the Cornucopia of Dionysus – a satyr's horn sculpted into the shape of a mug. As long as one drop of beer remains in it, the cup will forever replenish itself. A drunkard's Holy Grail. Joe doesn't remember when he first heard about it, but the seedier the dive, the more the tale is told.
The Elysian Tavern may not be the seediest bar in town, but, despite its hoity-toity, effeminate moniker, it's decrepit enough for Joe's tastes. The floor's always sticky; so are the tables. Half the lights are burnt out. The bartender's almost as drunk as the patrons. There's a permanent stench of beer and urine. Joe feels right at home. Plus, it's open twenty-four hours a day, which is convenient.
Some of these drunks, they make up epic adventures about how they almost found the Cornucopia deep in some cave on an island in the Mediterranean, or tried stealing it from a museum that didn't know which treasure they really had, or saw it at a yard sale, or tried to pry it from the hands of some mean motherfucker of a drunk, or...whatever damn nonsense. Always, they don't get their hands on it because of a woman or because of bad luck. Same fucking difference.
Only this time, it's not a drunk telling the story, but some university kid with one of those hand-held tape recorders. He's ostensibly listening to people's stories, but he's editorializing a lot. His teacher would certainly disapprove. That's bad field work. Joe should know; he used to be one of those disapproving teachers. Before the beer took over his life.
The kid's also buying rounds for anyone who talks to him.
The kid is freaking tall, with unkempt curly hair, out-of-control sideburns, and a goatee. Those tufts of facial hair are the fashion, Joe knows, but to him it only looks silly. Joe swallows nearly an entire mugful of beer, then belches and snorts.
The kid glances his way, nods in a manner that is probably meant to convey some sort of message that is entirely lost on Joe, and turns back to the fat, washed-up suit he's interviewing.
Joe never invents stories about the Cornucopia. Unlike these losers, Joe doesn't need to lie to make himself feel important. Joe is fully aware of how unimportant he is. As long as the beer keeps flowing, there's nothing wrong with that.
A couple of mugfuls later the kid's standing next to Joe, asking, "May I?"
"It's not like I own this table, kid. I'm just squatting."
The kid hesitates a bit but finally decides that was a yes.
The kid starts his spiel, "My – " but Joe interrupts him. "Kid, you've been here talking to people for hours. I may be a drunk, but I'm not deaf, for fuck's sake."
The kid looks a bit hurt.
Whatever. The kid is the first person to talk to him ever since that old fucker whose name he never learned tricked him into tasting his beer and then ran out of the bar. That was fucking years ago. Years ago. How many exactly? Joe has no clue. What a damn waste of a life.
Joe grabs the kid's right hand and wraps it around his nearly empty mug. He says, "Listen, buy the next round while I go take a leak. And we'll talk. The bartender knows what I'm having. I practically live in this fucking joint."
But Joe slips out of the bar, without the kid noticing.
The university kid says to the bartender, "One more round. Whatever he's having."
The bartender says, "That guy? Shit. He never orders anything. He never makes any trouble, though. So I leave him alone."
The kid turns to Joe's mug. It's full now. He's sure it was almost empty only moments ago.
His hands tremble. Could it be...?
He picks up the mug and sniffs the frothy ale. It's the most delicious smell ever.
Tentatively, he steals a sip. His head spins, and it feels so good.
Weeks later, months later, years later, he's still sitting at that table, nursing that same beer that never stops flowing. He's not much of a kid anymore, though.
He never makes any trouble, so the bartender leaves him alone.
©Claude Lalumière
Claude Lalumière's fiction has appeared in Year's Best SF 12, Year's Best Fantasy 6, SciFiction, Interzone, On Spec, and others. He has edited eight anthologies, including Witpunk (with Marty Halpern), Island Dreams, Open Space, Lust for Life (with Elise Moser), and Tesseracts Twelve. His website is lostpages.net, and he blogs at lostpagesfoundpages.blogspot.com. Claude lives in Montreal.