“Man, I could go for a drink.”
The wear and tear of the stick has frozen my heart and I’m left longing for a cocktail to melt my icy disposition. Hours of fake smiles and attempts at providing a perfect experience weigh on my shoulders. I want a dose of reality.
To a bar I go.
I’m a creature of habit; I frequent the same bars and talk to the same people. Often, I sit in my car for several minutes trying to decide between these places. The decision, however, is not up to me, but my shift. Did I deal with assholes all night or my regulars? How much money did I make? The big one: where am I going to feel comfortable?
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After a night of dealing with rude guests or light tippers, I want to sit down with a neat whiskey and cigarette. I gravitate towards a dimly lit bar with a great bourbon selection where I can remain unbothered. I want to walk in, throw my purse over the corner of a chair, and stare down bottles of everything from Elijah Craig 23 year to Buffalo Trace while I figure out what the hell is going to numb the pain of being called “YO!” even though I clearly introduced myself. These are the nights when I remind myself how much I love my job, and that beautiful dark spirit washing over my palate, warming my bones sip after sip, does the trick.
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Then there are the nights when I clock out with a smile on my face and a wad of cash in my pocket.
Beer nights:
When you go out to be social and enjoy the company of those around you. I want a dive bar. Somewhere I can ask for a Coors Light and a shot of Makers judgment free. Those are the nights when I hear last call and chug another beer and slam a shot. Hazy memories of laughing and joking, dancing and singing, but no clear details. Just a sense that the night was a fucking blast.
For more on Illustrator Matt Harrison and root beer comics click HERE
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