The thing that I like most about the bar is the fact that it is my bar. I am in no way an owner, a proprietor or a manager of any sorts. Rather, I just feel a sense of belonging on account of the amount of weekly dollars that I spend in the joint. I have been drinking in this place for way too long but hard habits are hard to break.
There is nothing special about this bar, I must acknowledge. Its floors are sticky, its chairs are not comfortable and its bathrooms are beneath all imaginable standards as aged urine serves as a never changing highly uninspired potpourri that would drive any Virgo woman to absolute psychosis.
I first came across this bar when I was a bit younger. It must have been back in my twenties. Back then my hair was longer, my mind still optimistic. Those days are long gone and so is the majority of my hair. This may have something to do with Maria and the years that followed but guilt is the subject of another day.
But this bar, it is still here and I am still in it. Drinking from those same old glasses that are scarcely washed in that unsanitary pool of rusty waters and inexpensive liquid soap. I have grown accustomed to sitting around with those same old people whose familiar bitter faces have grown into familiar furniture. I pass the time by listening to those same old stories that they often tell. I could not ask for anything more.
The women who come in to this place are perfectly loose and their morals largely absent. Any of them will roll around with any stranger who paid modest attentions to their exhausted tales or opened up his wallet for watered-down vodka disguised as something that healthier women would drink in a better place
Chicago Charlie always works the afternoon shift on Wednesdays. He is a descent bar tender who usually throws in an extra shot for us old timers who have been coming around this place for way too many years. Unlike Pam who typically works during the weekend, Charlie substitutes words with non-verbal communication. Great bar keeps realize that most of us all timers are not there to listen to their troubles but rather forget our own.
Since it was Wednesday and since Lizzy was not around, I ordered myself a double down bourbon on the rocks. I am not the kind of a guy who has a favorite drink. For me, it is all about a schedule.
On the odd days, I drink beers. On the even days I liquor it up. On the weekends it is purely random. I usually order whatever they have on special. I order a double bourbon on the rocks.
Then she approached me as if she did not remember who I was.
“Heya guy, want to buy a lady a drink?”
I offered her some water.
She told me to go fuck myself and walked on over to the other side of the bar where she found a properly dressed college kid with an open tab who was more than happy to oblige.
Jamie is a regular just like the rest of us. She has a gorgeous set of tits and a face that was clearly devastate by her extreme alcoholism and the heartbreak of a plan that did not pan out like it was suppose to.
Just like the rest of us, she could have been something completely different if she only made better decisions, if she surrounded herself with better company, if she only stayed away from the bar.
But like the rest of us, she didn’t and that was exactly why she is here with all of us old- timers.
The dilapidated jukebox is playing those familiar songs of Robert Johnson as it helps pass the time. Kind Hearted Woman Blues reminds me of the time I once spent out in Mississippi.
And now comes a man and sits right next to me. He is much younger than I. He has long hair and a Charles Bukowski tattoo on his left arm. The guy orders a double bourbon on the rocks.
“Great minds….” I tell him.
“Great mind what?” He asks.
“Great minds drink a double bourbon on the rocks. Great minds read books by Charles Bukowski minus his poetry.”
He smiles and waves his dismissing hand in my direction. “Hank Bukowski is the greatest motherfucking poet of all times. What do you know about it?”
I know nothing about it nor do I care. I once read Ham on Rye. It was not half bad. A woman bought me the book many years and told me that I just had to read it. And so I did.
“So what makes a man tattoo the name of another man on his hand?” I inquire.
“Call it appreciation of a far more talented individual than you can ever hope to become.”
I order another round and just smile while I am enjoying my time. From 4 Until Late is playing in the background and it all makes perfect sense to me, to the people have been coming here for years and to the old walls of this small bar that we all love so much.
It likely makes none to any of my readers but that was never the point of the story. I just want them all take a look around this place.
The guy next to me asks me to watch his drink while he takes a piss. For a moment I think about sipping it all down but he is all right despite it all.
Still, I would never consider tattooing a man’s name or image on any part of my body.
It is hard enough to commit to a woman so why bother with a man.
Jamie is all liquored up on the other side of the bar and it looks like she is ready to go. I know that I can do much better if I only made an effort but she is the best that is around.
She smiles in my direction and we head out towards Vernon’s Bar. I grab the drink of the guy while he takes a piss and walk out to the cold wind of the familiar parking lot.
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