It was a Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Time stopped keeping regular hours for me the second I sat down on that cracked red vinyl.
The bartender didn’t ask my name. He just set down a heavy glass mug with two fingers of foam and slid over a bowl of pretzels that had gone stale somewhere around the Clinton inauguration. Behind him, Scotch-taped to the Schlitz mirror: ATM BROKE. NO PLASTIC. DON’T ASK.
I bellied up, planted my elbows on forty years of sticky polyurethane, and got lost in my own head.
I wasn't looking for polish. I was chasing the raw geometry of the place: the arched script of forgotten beer logos, the crooked angle of the pool cues racked on wood paneling, the bold, unapologetic block letters stamped on tavern matchbooks.
By last call, my knuckles were stained blue and the bar top was covered in soggy, brilliant scraps.
I took that grease-pencil soul, cleaned up the rough edges, and burned the screens on thick, heavyweight carded cotton. Built to survive a hundred harsh wash cycles and cut loose for reaching across the felt.
No tabs. Cash only. Straight from the stool to the press.
