I found myself sitting alone at the bar in a dimly lit dive off the alley between 41st and Washington. It was one of those places shoe-horned amongst taller, more modern buildings; and I got the distinct impression that there were sections of the place that hadn't seen sunlight since the Roosevelt administration. It must've been early evening, because the only light coming through the front windows was that odd orange color, and it fell at a steep enough angle that I could watch the cigarrette smoke twirl and billow in the air. I looked down at my empty highball glass, my hands, examined the bleach white cuffs, pressed and starchy, poking out underneath the grey herringbone wool of my jacket sleeves. My cologne was beginning to fade, and I could feel my skin abrsorbing the smells of the bar. Smoke, stale beer, spilled whiskey, that stagnant moist tinge that hangs in still places.

"Another?"

I'm reeled out of my daze by the bartender. "Mm-ph," I barely mumble with a nod of my head. She pulls the Dalwhinnie down off the shelf and pours me two thick fingers. Twenty-nine years of peat, spring water, and oak barrel aging begin wafting around me. I pick up the small, gently sweating pitcher of ice water to my right and tenderly introduce a few drops, watching the alcohol and water dance around each other in the highball glass. Raising the drink to my lips, I savor the experience with my eyes closed as layer after layer washes over me. Mmm, quittin' time never tasted so good.

I spend about thirty minutes sitting in this empty dark dugout that passes for a bar, taking in the tired parade of commuters walking, riding, driving or biking down the street outside. The regular sounds of city transit buses push through the front wall of the bar in a muffled cadence, the occasional frustrated peal of a car horn, fragments of conversations held waiting for the 'WALK' light; and keeping time for them all is the rhythmic chorus of a homeless man begging for change.

Silently, my mind wanders. Seeing, hearing, wondering; but never interacting. Simply absorbing and coallating, organizing these shards of the human experience in an effort to...to do who knows what. Make a collage I guess. I swallow the last stringent dram from my glass, fish a few spare dollars from my coat pocket and place them on the bar. It's time to get going.

Posted by: shank at 04:32 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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