where's the vino? where's the bean?

where's the vino
I've given up drinking for a while.
(Waiting)
No, I am not pregnant.  Naturally, this is the first questioned I am asked after I drop the on-the-wagon bomb.
No, not pregnant, just need a break from my favorite escape.
No, I have not given up coffee too.  That would be cray-cray.  (The "bean" in the title refers to the me-bean, not the coffee-bean.)
The vino has been released of her duties for the time being.  The bean is laying low.
There is, however, a quarter-bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter, which on my (drinking) watch could never have survived the days between last Thursday --when it was opened and so cooly abandoned by the male guests we had that night-- and now.  The quarter that remains is probably embittered. With its label directed ever-so-slightly out the window it appears to be looking away haughtily, defiantly:  "Fine.  You won't have me?
 I am better off without you anyway.  I'd rather die a slow decaying death than be consumed by you of no appreciation."  A single stream-like stain colors her label in a faint mauve-y watercolor way.

It's like a Bordeaux teardrop.
She gazes out the window, paralyzed by the circumstances and trapped by the counter-top, no longer suitable for the wine rack.  I can feel her disappointment in me, knowing that I could have saved her from this spinster-fate.  "Not drinking!"  If she could shake her cork from side to side, she would.  "How selfish."  I do not try to explain it to her or defend myself.  I do not tell her that I'll be drinking again by the end of June.  I know how that would sound.  I've been passed over too. . .

where's the bean
A woman walked on to my subway train yesterday and in a strained and montotone (LOUD) voice, she delivered a well-rehearsed monologue:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, mynameisAliciaI'mhomelessandpregnantItisnotduetoanydrugsoralcohal.  Any donation you have would be appreciated.   Quarters, dimes, nickels are all helpful.  Twenties and One hundreds too."
(No one laughed.)
"Don't be ashamed to give a penny.  Even a penny helps, ladies and gentlemen."
Feeling keenly the ironic mix of comedy and tragedy before me and having been under the scrutiny of many many acting teachers myself, I felt that --though I am penniless and out-of-work too-- I can help.  But before I could open my mouth, the woman seated to the left of me piped up, clearly knowledgeable of the art form:
"Okay, okay, Alicia."
(Alicia stops, only mildly surprised.  This is New York after all, she must be used to getting feedback.)
"First of all, you are going to have SLOOOOW DOOOWWWN.  You are clipping your vowel sounds short and all the words are blending together.  Now, let's be honest, it's not the greatest bit of writing you have here, is it, but you are not really a writer now are you?  And this is not Creative Writing class, it's Acting.  And guess what, guys?  Acting is hard.  Acting is hard, people.  So, I don't give a shit what the material is, your job is to communicate to me, to us, to this whole train, what it is that you want."
Then from my right, a gentleman begins.  He is curt though articulate with an authentic English accent:
"Alicia, I can hear the words.  I know intellectually what it is that you want.  Certainly, it is in the text:  'quarters, dimes, nickels' --that bit is somewhat poetic, don't you think?  I say, use it!  Shakespeare didn't give us rhyming couplets for nothing, did he?  This is the same thing.  A List --any list-- is a gift, no matter if it is Shakespeare or Mamet or rubbish like this.  (No offense, dear, but you're not really a writer now, are you?)  I want to hear each of those specific items in your list and how they are different."
Across the train, a young woman dressed mostly in black with a nose ring stands up.  Now, I cannot know for sure, but I suspect she is a recent graduate of some MFA program, but she has been living and working downtown for at least a year, so she knows some stuff:
"Right!  Right?  Is a nickel different from a dime?  Yes.  Is a dime different from a twenty?  Fuck yeah.  Fuck yeah it is, and we need to know that.  We need to feel that.  We need to feel that while nickels and dimes can help you over time, a twenty means what?"
(Alicia is silent.  Her face reflects uncertainty.)
"Dinner?  A Shower?  Medicine?  Only you know, Alicia.  But you have to make a choice.  It's clear that you've got the text down, Alicia, but now I need to hear the subtext too.  'Dime.' Why?  'Food.'  Why?  'The Baby's health.'  Why?  'Something better.'  What?  'A better life.'  What?  'A better life.'  What?  'A better life.  Yes.  Yes.  Good.  Now, do it again."
As Alicia thinks about all this, I make up my mind to contribute:
"Alicia, I sat all the way at the back of this theatre, I mean train, with headphones on, and I could hear every syllable you said.  Even when I tried to block you out, I heard you.  There is no doubt in my mind that your volume could fill a Broadway house.  Let that be an example to your classmates."

and now, a poem in two stanzas:
quaker boots, booty-tash
mashed potato breakfast hash
sucker-tub slut-bucket
butter-rub, rubber-butt

fancy ketchups, butternut

twat-block giddy-up

pop-squat, booty-drop

hot toddy body wash