A large woman in a mumu catches the evil eye for not tipping.  An Asian girl looking out of place plays songs nervously on the jukebox. Old men sit next to each other without speaking and me, I sit at the end of the bar alone as always, drinking my Makers and trying not to stare at the bartender. She looks tired. Maybe it’s from all the shots she’s done with me or maybe it’s from something else. Everyone except me seems to have a reason to be tired like they work a lot, or have kids or work a lot so that they can do the stuff they really aspire to. I wish I aspired to something. I try to remember if I ever did, but I can’t remember wanting to do anything except drink. Settlement or not, I’d probably be sitting on this same barstool in this same bar, in the same hazy light of day, drunk.  

The bartender bends down to wash the glasses and her breasts sway from side to side like pom-poms.

“Excuse me-“ She looks up. “Can I get another?“
“Sure.”

I don’t really want another but I can’t bear to watch her clean. She should be in the movies or on T.V. Isn’t that what everyone here wants? Everyone except me ‘cause I look like a bulldog hangdog extraordinaire. The one time I saw a photo of myself it was hard to believe that was me – that was what people saw when they looked at my face. For a year, the mirror in the bathroom down the hall has been cracked, and before that it was so stained you could be that guy from Mask and think you were good looking.

She hands me the glass. It’s a heavy pour. “Thanks.”
“That one’s on me. You’re the only one with manners.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies.

She’s no conversationalist but I don’t need someone who talks a lot. I’d hate that. I’d feel like I had to keep up and I don’t have anything to say.

The shift change happens but I don’t notice until the new bartender gives me a glass of water. He doesn’t like me. She’d never give me a glass of water. She’d only give me booze, shots, and now this guy is insinuating it’s time I went home well Fuck him!

Now the doorman is dragging me out. Maybe I forget my credit card. Maybe my pack of cigarettes gets left behind. But there’s no arguing with the Doorman and anyways, I respect him. Fucking bartender though, who does he think he is?

“Hey.” A girl is staring at me.
“Yeah?”
“What happened?”

Her eyes are huge like saucers. Like she’s looking at something terrible. I peer down at myself to see if I’m bleeding but I’m not. “Shift change,” I say. I like to use bar vernacular. In the morning when there’s no coffee I go, 86 the coffee! But to no one but myself. Last time someone was in my house was three years ago – my friend Drew. I visited him in the hospital after he got jumped on Westlake. He didn’t remember my name. The doctor said he’d never remember it or anything else and I thought so fucking lucky. It was ironic months later when I ended up in the same place, the exact same room, but sadly for me, I remembered it all.

“You alright?”
“Yeah. You?”
“I was just going in to get a drink.”
“Well-“ I say and then don’t know what to say and smile stupidly. She turns and disappears inside. I watch through the windows as she makes her way to Mister Shift Change. He kisses her on the mouth and I think that if someone loved me, I could be a bartender too.