March 9, 2009

Since 1859 you have stood here and taken in all the sites to see. One upon a time you were filled with young eager wenches, strewn about waiting for the hard worked stagecoach men to stop by and enjoy them. I sit here today march of 2009 with a vodka redbull in hand, house salad and bread in my belly, waiting for the chicken in a basket i ordered to cool down. Its the kind of chicken you can still tell what it is. and a biscuit to boot. Old fashioned food, simple and pleasurable.

biker boys in their leather chaps with women on their arm missing teeth. lisped drunkenness surrounds me, but it is comfortable and feels like home. The food smells of the frialater, and i cannot wait to indulge. it is a sunny afternoon and here i sit, in this tattered room in this bar, where many bottoms before me have sat. I can feel my cheeks flush from the vodka.

When I walked in you were full and in 15 minutes you emptied. ebb and flow. a stream of people just tricked in. Trashy women with their scruffy looking men. Like I said, this comforts me. Nobody here is high class. In fact in here i do not know if the cell phone has been invented yet, along with computers. Technology is not of an abundance here, nor would these present day "stables" be appropriate for a place like this.

A trashy young dame who thinks she is sexy with her sweatshirt that is missing the bottom half exposing her tan fleshy belly and bit square sunglasses, does not realize that in 1859 she would be wearing a stained gown with a pushup bra. The chicken is so cooked that the skin is like candy.

I sit beneath layers of yellowed dollar bills. each yellowed specimen touched by the fingers of an excited man in the 1800's. Men that walk in here ready to show some lucky wench just how much of a man he can be. Walls that whores had their backs pressed against as handsome young lads pressed up against them whispering little nothings into their ear. Brooks & Dunn's My Maria is playing on the jukebox. There is probably at least $1000 here tacked to the ceiling. I myself may add to this collection of history.

It is quite unattractive when skinny women wear jeans that are too tight and they have their shirt tied in a knot. I should not be surprised by this though in this sort of environment. Trailer trash like myself fit right in here. Over my left shoulder I just overheard a woman say, "oh gosh she looks gay". I wonder if she is refering to me. Do I care? not particularly. The deep fried food and vodka have calmed my nerves and put me into a coma like trance. I can hear the waitress cackling in the back room. She calls me sweetie.

The bar is now quiet. I've learned that Rae is the name of the grayed gentleman serving the house tonight. He is wearing an old turquoise and faded white polo shirt that looks as though it has seen brighter days. His eyes look honest and optimistic, unlike those of the two boys who are watching the US baseball team lead Venezuela by one. My chest and heart feel heavy. My ride home will be a long one.

I am anxious. It has been a long time since I ate out and I rarely do so alone. I do not feel alive, I more feel like a zombie. The waitress just passed by but this time i was "my dear". Her make-up is heavy around her eyes, probably to cover up the dark circles that would tell you what her home life is like. Smudged black mascara and eye liner make her feel protected against others judgment. She seems sweet.

My cheeks are still flush, but nothing like what they will be later when I endulge in my cheap Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey. I just finished off my drink here, but no more, I would hate to be cited for cycling under the influence. what a shame that would be. The jukebox has stopped. I can hear my hear and the moan of the chatter. It is nearing that time where I wrap things up. I will be back to see you someday, I am sure.