Part 3

Well, this is awkward. I'm the only one in the bar, just me and the new bartender. He seems to be nice and even "gave" me some money to get the jukebox started. So, I choose twenty songs and spent all he gave. I wonder what the protocol is. Am I only supposed to play a few songs and leave the rest for him or another customer?

It is so hot the french doors are closed, changing the dynamic of the place greatly but I am grateful for the coolness. There are other differences in my experience here today, I am sitting one table up from my usual seat and in a different chair. So far, there is no one to write about and the bartender is much younger than me and because of his youth can't be looked at in any way to give him any character. I can't even look towards the bar. He asked me if I needed more light or if there was anything I wanted to watch on T.V.

T.V.? Oh no. More light? Certainly not.

I truly am holding the bartender hostage with my music tonight. When there are just two people it feels much more personal, like we should be talking about the music, life, or something. Instead I just look like the stereotypical art school girl writing in her journal at an awkward fevered clip, the only difference is that I have traded up from coffee and cigarettes to dark beer.

The bartender is cleaning the windows now, I hate cleaning things in front of people. I wonder if I should tell him that the open sign has not yet been switched on. A man comes in but only to grab some smokes. He has Chinese characters on his t-shirt and dark hair. He gets his cigarettes and leaves in a hurry, not even stopping for his receipt. He looks young too, I am guessing 15 years younger than me. The smoke boy and the bartender, I bet they think I am younger. The only clue that I am not would be that I am in here alone. I am assuming this gives me an air of sophistication and not craziness.

This place feels lonelier than usual and has a slightly off smell- probably just the packaged air, but there are also some stray flies that have found their way in as the door opens. As I brush them away, I am worried that the bartender can not see the flies and thinks I am again some crazy old cat lady alone and spastic in the corner with my journal. Robert Johnson fades out as Iggy Pop takes to the air.

Another person comes in, a regular. He turns on the sign and complains about the smell and puts forty- five more credits on the jukebox. He also opens the french doors, and people start to come in like magic. Stagger Lee (yes, I select it every time) plays, and I wonder if the bartender listens to the lyrics. I see a majestic creature, a sixty something year old woman with the most spectacular plastic surgery walk past the doors. There is no secret to it. No mystery, just a slice and dice fantasy nightmare. A young couple enter, he in a preppy plaid shirt, and she looking like a combination of Posh Spice, Dorothy Hamill and a long lost Osmond family member- her teeth are amazing.

The song changes and the bartender suddenly sings along, "That's when I reach for my revolver..." and then he asks me "Still doing alright?"

What a question...