Dive Bar

There’s a little dive bar, a truly dying breed of establishment in this city (which is a shame. We used to have 10-12 but, through gentrification, we’re down to two on the fringes of the city’s limits), around the corner from work. It’s the kind of place where the dry erase board lists the recently dead, injured, and incarcerated.

And there are always new names.

I stop in sometimes after work and my girlfriend and I stop in every month or so. We’re not regulars (which means you’ll never see our names on the tote board) but we are known.

That is mainly due to our long standing friendship with a well known family from the neighborhood. Through that friendship we’ve met some of the regulars and are treated well.

I’m sitting there, alone, space on each side, when one of regulars, Goat, comes over to greet me. I could tell you how Goat acquired that sobriquet, but I won’t. Suffice it to say, it’s fitting.

We exchange pleasantries, he inquires about my girlfriend and why she hasn’t been around.

“She has a modicum of taste and, being summer, often wears open toed shoes.”

Goat chuckles and says,

“I like her better than you. At least she fraternizes with me.”

I look at Goat and say,

“I can see where you would like her better, but, she’s not fraternizing, she’s patronizing.”

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One response to “Dive Bar

  1. you can always count on a goat to come to the point

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