didn't leave my house until after dark yesterday when I walked down to the local dive bar where it smells like bleach and vomit and they sell pbr tall cans for a dollar seventy-five. I drank half of my first one without taking a breath and as the carbonation coursed through my bloodstream I felt the tension in my shoulders relax, the crease between my eyebrows disappear, the downturned corners of my mouth move infinitesimally upward.
that I recently thought of quitting seems like a joke.
the people that hang out in dive bars on tuesday nights would depress me if I wasn't one of them. I try to justify it, to distance myself from the erstwhile homecoming queens with bad bleach jobs crying into their white wine, the flabby skin of their arms pooling on the bar top as they lean heavily, too tired even to hold themselves upright; the grizzled old cow-pokes chewing tobacco with three teeth; the middle aged sleezeball with the tiny yellow drink flaunting his combover in the face of anyone who will listen to him talk about the girlfriend he just broke up with, you know, the super hot one.
I live right around the corner, I tell myself, making it a matter of convenience, not preference. I'm just here for a game of pool with my father; it was his idea, anyway.
I examine him dispassionately, my father, as he lines up his next shot. there's a new kind of desperation in his actions that wasn't there a few months ago. he doesn't let his stubble grow out, his hair is always neatly cut, his t-shirts are smaller, more fashionable. every time the bell over the door chimes his eyes snap to the new arrivals. females between 25 and 40 he sizes up, trying and failing to be subtle. he looks like someone checking expiration dates on milk at the grocery store.
one of the three-toothed cowboys takes a handful of quarters to the jukebox and pumps them in methodically, the bulge of chewing tobacco distends his bottom lip obscenely and there are dark stains around his mouth. I want to look away, but I'm strangely transfixed by his gnarled fingers punching the blue light-up buttons on the machine. the music begins, upbeat, clashing horribly with the atmosphere.
"you can go your own way," the singer croons, and I look around. can you? I wonder as I drain my beer and hold up two fingers for another. can you, really?
that I recently thought of quitting seems like a joke.
the people that hang out in dive bars on tuesday nights would depress me if I wasn't one of them. I try to justify it, to distance myself from the erstwhile homecoming queens with bad bleach jobs crying into their white wine, the flabby skin of their arms pooling on the bar top as they lean heavily, too tired even to hold themselves upright; the grizzled old cow-pokes chewing tobacco with three teeth; the middle aged sleezeball with the tiny yellow drink flaunting his combover in the face of anyone who will listen to him talk about the girlfriend he just broke up with, you know, the super hot one.
I live right around the corner, I tell myself, making it a matter of convenience, not preference. I'm just here for a game of pool with my father; it was his idea, anyway.
I examine him dispassionately, my father, as he lines up his next shot. there's a new kind of desperation in his actions that wasn't there a few months ago. he doesn't let his stubble grow out, his hair is always neatly cut, his t-shirts are smaller, more fashionable. every time the bell over the door chimes his eyes snap to the new arrivals. females between 25 and 40 he sizes up, trying and failing to be subtle. he looks like someone checking expiration dates on milk at the grocery store.
one of the three-toothed cowboys takes a handful of quarters to the jukebox and pumps them in methodically, the bulge of chewing tobacco distends his bottom lip obscenely and there are dark stains around his mouth. I want to look away, but I'm strangely transfixed by his gnarled fingers punching the blue light-up buttons on the machine. the music begins, upbeat, clashing horribly with the atmosphere.
"you can go your own way," the singer croons, and I look around. can you? I wonder as I drain my beer and hold up two fingers for another. can you, really?
