Backwards

I wiped down all the counters and the bar with a towel stained with god knows what, but it just came from the dishwasher so I guess it was fine. Pretty sure it wasn't blood. The bar is scratched and splinters snag the bar rag and the stray threads would make those equally tiny snapping noises; those tiny pops that I could only hear because nothing else was moving. I sent the barback home. The other bartender asked me to cover the rest of the shift because he wanted to take home a girl several years his junior. I may be the boss, but I'm no tyrant, and I opened this damn bar to encourage vice.

Plus, and I don't mean to sound like a prick here, but it gives me a chance to see if I can't find a filly of my own.

Some asshole tagged the bathroom with a sharpie. The smell of chemicals still lingers in the air like a passing bad memory, and just what is it that makes some drunk sonofabitch think that every misspelled, rambling nonsense they affix to a wall is fucking William Blake? Ah well, just a bunch of damn kids anyway. I remember a time when I thought I was prolific.

Christ, if I stare at it long enough it just sort of happens. The walls start to melt and all the graffiti and chipped paint fade and the bathroom stops smelling like vomit and the bar is new and varnished and it's opening night again. A couple of college boys are desperately trying to pick up some girls I used to babysit and that I know are jailbait. Yeah, I let 'em in. Better I can look after of them. You and I were both that age. You know what we did. I'd rather be able to identify the guys they make mistakes with so I can kick their deserving asses next time they try to come in. Some sad drunk bastard twice my age is at the other end pounding beers, but he's nursing his Maker's neat-- makes me think he knows what he's doing. A bachelorette party staggers in, looks appalled, and almost cuts right out but the bride to be gives me that fucking look and I know it's going to be a fun night.

When I close up it's a lot like it is tonight, but the bar rag is pure white, and it glides over everything like it was glass. The paint on the walls shines so bright if it weren't for the low lighting I'd go blind. The place smells like, well I can't fucking remember what it smelled like, but it was a lot better than vomit that's for damn sure. And I'll tell you what. That bothered the hell out of me. It was too damn clean! I never liked any of those sterile joints and I would be damned if I would own one.

You know what happened then? Same damn thing that's happening now. The bar melted away and the varnish and the paint and the shine of everything was replaced by dust. It was the first time I ever saw the place. The realtor was telling me that it was some kind of stable. I guess they used to wash horses here or something, but I saw booths built between the wooden partitions. I saw a bar on the other side stocked with some of the best and shittiest booze I could get my hands on. I saw beautiful, trashy women, and not a blazer or necktie in sight. It looked like it does tonight, with maybe less piss on the toilet seat. I fucking hate that.

It's funny how it took me turning a rundown old shithole into a classy-looking establishment, only so it could get that kind of character that a bar can only get over the years by slowly turning into a shithole.

I pour myself a beer, lay a pillow on the bar, and get ready to hit the hay. Do this every damn year. Happy anniversary you run-down piece of shit! I hope you never fucking change.