an old-time bar under an overpass...

an old-time bar under an overpass and bordered by train tracks and a body shop-classic small town SC real estate. larger than expected on the inside with a spacious oblong bar with stages at opposite ends. a classic 'hey, how ya doin' joint with lonely regs and long-in-the-tooth dancers keepin' it real-'cept for the one pair of triple E's on the premises. no naughty bits shared during lifeless sets to dated music over a sound system that was state of the art twenty-five years ago. kitchen, pool table and the ubiquitous shitter wall fan covered in filth and rattling up a storm. manager's a george carlin look-a-like right down to the neatly clipped beard, pony tail, earring, and wiry energy. snippet of overheard conversation...custy...' are all the old girls gone' ....homely 'tender...'yeah, all gone..all new now...but the old one's 'll be back...they always do...' and with that nugget of wisdom i catapulted myself through the door and across the barren and concrete threshold to the outer doors and onto the mean streets of morrisville pa.- one tomato juice, three dancers, fifteen minutes and four dollars and seventy five cents poorer. a small price to pay for the knowledge that you never have to go back...