The Columbus Chronicles, Pt. 2
The bar reeks of pine cleaner and cigarettes, a smell that puts off
all but the most dedicated drinkers
fluorescent lights are dull blue grey and look remarkably like
a hospital waiting room
It could be a waiting room, I guess
A waiting to die room
The bar feels sticky from thousands of quick swipes with a
dirty bar towel The man next to me orders a PBR
at 50 cents, he can afford a few of them, I think
judging by the five spot he fingers
The rest of us spread out, but not too far
people who are too far away are suspect, more so if they order
something exotic or imported
“might be a terrorist” is the unspoken ripple through the rest of us
We remember 9/11. It is fresh forevermore in this dive
We joke with the perpetually tired bartender, his shift made bearable
by sips of vodka and 7-Up. He chugs coffee in between, wiping, talking
bantering with those of us who are functional