The men, they're sitting here with cigars hanging off the corners of their lips, and the women, well, I get a sense that they are running their germy hands up their husbands' legs. Everyone here is older than me, but I don't mind. I'm a people watcher--a big-time people watcher who can't help but watch the guy across the bar talk with his hands to a lady who is flicking cigarettes in hers. One man just got done joking that he has "a nice ass." Yeah. . . ummm . . . okay.
It smells like smoke in here. It's your typical bar, I guess. This must mean that I'll get hit on soon. Or maybe not. I don't want to sound pretentious. I hate that word anyway; I would never want to define it.
Also, I have to admit something. I'm at a VFW. Drinks are cheap--$1.50 for a mixed. And $1.50 for a soft cheese pretzel . . . yum. My pap belongs here. He used to run the place and had a fancy commander title in front of his name. "From 1985 to 1991," he told me. He's pretty proud of having a part in the place, even now, at 86-years-old. I was looking at his eyelashes tonight, how they curl downward at such an admirable angle. Hopefully my eyelashes will take after his in 60-some decades.
I'm about to take another sip of my drink and get out of here in order to watch the 12/12/12 benefit concert featuring Bruce Springsteen, Roger Waters, Paul McCartney, etc. tonight. I hope I can share a drink with my pap again soon. Until then, cheers to this date. It won't happen for another 100 years.
I don't think I'll be around by then, and even the optimist within me just might be okay with that.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .