Remember when we were in Africa?

Jim's voice belts out of the jukebox as I walk in. I make small talk with the bartender, get my pint and settle in. See Emily play by Pink Floyd comes on next, it sounds so perfect and I am surprised that I have memories associated with the song and that I know the lyrics. I remember brown eyes, black hair, olive skin, a heavy drinker, and a good kisser from my past. A suicide victim about two years ago now. Sometimes this ghost shows up at the strangest times, mostly a flash from high school and the in between time before college. I barely have any right to his memory.

Stand by your man comes on next, I remember drawing a picture of Tammy Wynette once in the 1970's when I was a child for reasons unknown, as this was not the sort of music played in my house. Somehow it must have filtered in.

The air is close, I can feel my hair curling from the humidity after the break in the rain.

It is now my turn for the jukebox. The Rolling Stone's Get off my cloud is my first selection, then Mission of Burma's That's when I reach for my revolver. Four men dressed in their sunday best or more like banker's clothes stand by the open french doors to pow-wow, smoke and talk about life. I wonder what that sounds like. I can't quite hear them. I am fighting the urge to get up and dance to the songs playing. I am wearing my good luck creepers after all.

I am alone sitting at the back table closest to the jukebox. This is my usual spot when I come here. I am the only woman in the bar, what does this say about me? Anything? It gives me a sense of freedom I relish. Nick Cave's Tupelo is my third selection. Perfect for the recent weather. The bartender checks on me. We chat about our histories of this small town. How he went away for a year to work in his family's meat shop in the hills in an even smaller town. He worked smoking meat, drank too much and watched too much TV until he was called back here to work. He enjoys the social interaction. We talk about Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue. I tell him I am writing stories about the people in the bar. Iggy Pop's I wanna be your dog comes on, and one of the sunday dressed boys says, "I've heard this song before!" I think to myself "that's a good thing, sport." The bartender likes it that I am writing about the scene in the bar. I shrug and smile a bit embarrassed: "It's something to do." Joy Division's Transmission comes on, oh I love this machine. I wish I had a ton of money to give it.

I overhear the sunday boys say something about making a choice between "a topless chick or a tire swing"- did I really hear that? I know my choice. More people come into the bar, I wish I had more money for music, but the bartender has pretty good taste- I will have to leave it in his capable hands for now. "It's like picking the tallest midget" is also over heard from the bar, then some sexist comments are spewed out by some new arrivals- so unfortunate.

One of the sunday boys makes his way to the jukebox- I am afraid he will find only the worst songs- his buddy calls out to him "serve us up some Coldplay Sir" Oh good god. After the Coldplay, Elvis comes on, Suspicious Minds. Suddenly I am so happy to be who I am and where I am. I enjoy drinking beer on a Saturday while watching traffic crawl up and down the street. More people start to walk the street peering into the open doors of the bar almost as if they are looking at an exhibition at the zoo. We are all animals...

Sweet Jane comes on, this jukebox is almost idiot proof and the sunday boys leave. Interpol plays and then more Iggy Pop. A Vespa buzzes down the street, and as more women enter the bar, the air smells like middle aged hippie perfume and fried chicken. A guy at the bar has a shirt on that reads "love is a four letter word."

Let's have a ball and a biscuit sugar...