around she was spreading her legs for anybody willing to buy her a few martinis. First they had fights, then they stopped talking. But neither of them was willing to give
up this spot. When you find a good bar, you tend to be loyal. Instead, and without discussing it, they developed shifts. Sometimes there’s overlap, but not today.
He walks across the room to a barstool and sits down on cushioned red leather.
The barkeep, Jerry, a balding fellow with a gut that hangs over his belt, white shirt stretched over it like a tarp, dries his hands on a liquor-and mixer-stained towel, grabs a tumbler, and
pours a double shot of bourbon into it. He pushes the drink across the counter to Eugene, who lifts it, puts it to his nose, and inhales its fine harsh scent.
He takes a mouthful, closes his eyes, and lets it sit on his tongue. He likes the tingling sensation it brings. He swallows. It goes down warm, feeling acidic, like heartburn in reverse.
He grew up during prohibition, so most of what he drank back home was bathtub moonshine. Occasionally, though, someone’s dad would get a prescription and bring home a bottle of Old
Grand-Dad, which everyone would nip from for the next day or two. The bottle claimed the whiskey was
UNEXCELLED FOR MEDICINAL PURPOSES
and while Eugene still isn’t sure what medicinal purposes the whiskey might serve – sometimes it was prescribed for gout, sometimes for the very headaches it caused
– he believed then and believes still that Old Grand-Dad is unexcelled for drinking purposes. There’s nothing finer than a good bourbon. He thinks he’ll have another three of
these at least before he even considers letting his stool cool off.
He finishes work midday, eats lunch, and still has hours to kill. He loves the way they stretch out before him. He doesn’t understand boredom. Sitting on a barstool, sipping a drink,
thinking about the book you will soon start writing – soon, but not today – is more than enough to fill the hours.
One need not actually do anything.
Thinking is enough. Dreaming is enough. Dreaming is the best. As soon as you do , the dream is dead, usurped by reality. It’s best to hold onto that bittersweet hope and the
knowledge that there’s still time, even if it is slowly bleeding down the drain of the world. For now there’s time. There’s the future.
He again sips his drink.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘How are the twins?’
‘Short and stupid.’
‘I’m not sure those were the wisest names for your children, Jerry.’
‘You ain’t met em.’
‘How old are they now?’
‘Ten months. I don’t know why they can’t be born twelve years old. What good are kids when they’re too goddamn small to take out the garbage?’
Eugene shrugs, thinks of his own childhood.
He grew up in poverty, but hardly knew it. He could spend entire days alone, playing, building fantasy worlds around himself as he went on great adventures, hunting nonexistent beasts and
discovering imaginary treasures. There was an innocent magic to it that even now makes his chest ache with nostalgia when he thinks about it, though he knows there was ugliness there he’s
since forgotten, or pushed from his mind. He could remember, but chooses not to. He’s simply glad he still has some small magic within him. He’s protective of it, never wants to lose
it. Maybe this is why he doesn’t spend it, why he only dreams. He’s afraid if he uses it, the magic will be gone. He’s afraid he will use it up completely. Then what will he have
left?
The door behind him lets out a high-pitched squeak as someone pushes through. He looks over his shoulder to see a slender woman with wavy red hair slither into the dim bar. She’s pale,
with fine features, and manages somehow to be both beautiful and ugly simultaneously. There’s something oddly, disquietingly, reptilian about her. She sways silently toward the counter, in a
brief dress, and sits down, leaving an empty stool between
up this spot. When you find a good bar, you tend to be loyal. Instead, and without discussing it, they developed shifts. Sometimes there’s overlap, but not today.
He walks across the room to a barstool and sits down on cushioned red leather.
The barkeep, Jerry, a balding fellow with a gut that hangs over his belt, white shirt stretched over it like a tarp, dries his hands on a liquor-and mixer-stained towel, grabs a tumbler, and
pours a double shot of bourbon into it. He pushes the drink across the counter to Eugene, who lifts it, puts it to his nose, and inhales its fine harsh scent.
He takes a mouthful, closes his eyes, and lets it sit on his tongue. He likes the tingling sensation it brings. He swallows. It goes down warm, feeling acidic, like heartburn in reverse.
He grew up during prohibition, so most of what he drank back home was bathtub moonshine. Occasionally, though, someone’s dad would get a prescription and bring home a bottle of Old
Grand-Dad, which everyone would nip from for the next day or two. The bottle claimed the whiskey was
UNEXCELLED FOR MEDICINAL PURPOSES
and while Eugene still isn’t sure what medicinal purposes the whiskey might serve – sometimes it was prescribed for gout, sometimes for the very headaches it caused
– he believed then and believes still that Old Grand-Dad is unexcelled for drinking purposes. There’s nothing finer than a good bourbon. He thinks he’ll have another three of
these at least before he even considers letting his stool cool off.
He finishes work midday, eats lunch, and still has hours to kill. He loves the way they stretch out before him. He doesn’t understand boredom. Sitting on a barstool, sipping a drink,
thinking about the book you will soon start writing – soon, but not today – is more than enough to fill the hours.
One need not actually do anything.
Thinking is enough. Dreaming is enough. Dreaming is the best. As soon as you do , the dream is dead, usurped by reality. It’s best to hold onto that bittersweet hope and the
knowledge that there’s still time, even if it is slowly bleeding down the drain of the world. For now there’s time. There’s the future.
He again sips his drink.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘How are the twins?’
‘Short and stupid.’
‘I’m not sure those were the wisest names for your children, Jerry.’
‘You ain’t met em.’
‘How old are they now?’
‘Ten months. I don’t know why they can’t be born twelve years old. What good are kids when they’re too goddamn small to take out the garbage?’
Eugene shrugs, thinks of his own childhood.
He grew up in poverty, but hardly knew it. He could spend entire days alone, playing, building fantasy worlds around himself as he went on great adventures, hunting nonexistent beasts and
discovering imaginary treasures. There was an innocent magic to it that even now makes his chest ache with nostalgia when he thinks about it, though he knows there was ugliness there he’s
since forgotten, or pushed from his mind. He could remember, but chooses not to. He’s simply glad he still has some small magic within him. He’s protective of it, never wants to lose
it. Maybe this is why he doesn’t spend it, why he only dreams. He’s afraid if he uses it, the magic will be gone. He’s afraid he will use it up completely. Then what will he have
left?
The door behind him lets out a high-pitched squeak as someone pushes through. He looks over his shoulder to see a slender woman with wavy red hair slither into the dim bar. She’s pale,
with fine features, and manages somehow to be both beautiful and ugly simultaneously. There’s something oddly, disquietingly, reptilian about her. She sways silently toward the counter, in a
brief dress, and sits down, leaving an empty stool between
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