The bartender hesitates. “I think you’ve had enough, sport.”

The man in the baseball cap shakes his head. “Last one, I promise.”

“Sorry, rules are rules. You’ve had six, and you came in on your own steam. Nobody leaves this place drunk and gets behind the wheel.”

Baseball Cap fishes out his keys, slaps them onto the counter. “I’ll take a cab. Hit me, okay?”

Reluctantly, the barkeep tilts the bottle into the shot-glass. “Last one. Don’t want you leaving here and falling down or getting hurt because we sold you the whiskey. Deal?”

Baseball cap shrugs. “What’s it matter?”

“Matters to the bar’s attorney.”

“Fuckin’ lawyers.”

Except for a couple necking in a booth, the bar is empty. The bartender yawns. “Anything on your mind?”

“A lot on my mind, actually. Dad’s got cancer, wife left me, lost my job.” Baseball Cap knocks it back and coughs. “Everything’s falling apart, you know?”

Barkeep whistles. “Lot to happen at once.”

“Yeah.”

“But I can see you’re going to rise above it. I mean, look at you, you’re obviously doing okay with money, you’re wearing a quality shirt and you’ve got manicured nails and a good haircut. You take care of yourself. Why? ‘Cause you’re worth it. Don’t lose your self-worth over everything that’s happening. Don’t let the situation control you, dude. You’re better than that.”

Baseball Cap leans back on his stool and regards the bartender through a drunken haze. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying don’t use alcohol to escape reality. It never works.”

Low chuckle. “I don’t use alcohol to escape reality.”

“Well, it sure seems like it.”

Cap’s eyes are clear. “To blot out reality is to admit it exists.”

Barkeep looks confused, then a smile emerges. “That’s fucked up. I like that.”

“Now pour me another drink and shut up.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.