Its been said that a Bar of Broken Dreams exist in an undisclosed location. Only at your lowest or weakest point in life its' location is revealed. It's where all the has-been, wanna be's and never will be's always hang out. They pour whiskey like misery on a cold winters day. The bartender as crude as the motor oil that makes his motorcycle run. With a toothless grin he welcome all new patrons. Although he doesn't want to hear about your pathetic excuse for an existence. The only thing the bartender hopes for is a good drinker and an excellent tipper. Someone who can drink an entire bottle with out being a nuisance.
The bar itself is like a desert. Dry, hot, and sticky during the day. At night its Colder than a bitches heart. Depending on the time of year, you might hear coyotes sing a cowboy song. Crying to the night of broken hearts. During the day The Vultures circle around all the weak critters. Some might have a chance at picking through the carcuss of an unfortunate soul. Lingering flesh from their rabid beaks. Staring at you with their beady eyes. Feeling your every step. Watching your every move intill you fall face down in the sand. Tired, poisoned from a rattle snake bite, lacking of water and food. That's where they getcha.
I myself am a shaker, a maker of hopes and dreams and this bar is the last place i need to be. No real music. no real dreams. I've wonder many times 'how i did to get here?' From where i sit, i can see there is nothing to help these people out. Poor souls looking for the exit sign. pathetic patrons who climb the bar stools for that sole ideal of looking at life from the bottom of a glass in hopes that it might improve their perception. Falling further lower than they were the hour before.
Currently as I write this note, I see the woman sitting directly across from me grinning, with a glazed over look of "no ones home" in her eyes. As she begins to cackle at absolutely nothing, I noticed teeth missing. Her head bobs as her cackling grows louder. Patches of missing hair around her wrinkled scalp.
Wondering to myself, 'how long have the majority of people been in this bar?'
As if he was reading my mind the bartender pours my whiskey in to a dirty tumbler stained with a pink lipstick. "These people come and go, some never leave, and some just come for the day."
I look at my glass of whiskey with disgust. I can't bring it to myself to tell this bartender that the glass he gave me was dirtier than the toilets of an outhouse, I was pretty convinced those were actually cleaner.
The bartender reached over and with the bottom of his shirt wiped the lipstick stain. "You look like you don't belong here." He said with a look of approval for my lack of attendance. "People your age swing around here during their college years, when their careers fail, or they have a major heart break. So which one of the three."
I smiled and said, "none, i'm just on vacation."
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