Jason and I went to a new bar yesterday after rehearsal, a little bar called Dusty’s. I’d seen it a million times before, but never had the guts to go inside. Our regular spot was being remodeled, a good thing or a bad thing, I’m not sure yet.
We walked in and there was a room full of old bikers, with their long graying beards. I said hi to one, he grudgingly said hi back. There was a version of Black Sabbath’s War Pigs playing on the jukebox.
I bought the first round. Seven bucks. It was a lot cheaper than the other place.
We sat down and tried to blend in. Nobody seemed to care that we were there.
I noticed an older guy who looked just like a desert turtle feeding the jukebox. He kept playing Black Sabbath tunes. I didn’t mind. I like Black Sabbath.
A man with a funny looking hat, came up to me, and asked if I wanted to play a game of pool.
“Sure, but I’m not very good.”
I looked over to Jason. He was rubbing his thumb and fingers together. He wanted me to play for money. The man looked legitimate. He had a booming voice. He kind of looked like a Yuppie. I played him straight up, although I should have played him for money. He was the worst pool player in the world. As it turned out, he might not have had all his marbles. He kept saying "Nice!" when the ball went in.
Frankly the bar felt like an insane asylum for hardcore drinkers. The clientele seemed just a little off. Mouths were turned funny, people were tight around the forehead. I couldn’t help but look around every now than to analyze the situation. Jason kept buying rounds. It occurred to me that Jason was one of them.
No comments:
Post a Comment