STRENGTH IN [NEGATIVE] NUMBERS.
four hours in a bar alone. and i finally get the nerve to ask, is the bathroom up here or downstairs?" so i go piss and surprise myself with scenes, images in my head i'd rather not revisit.
it's hard not recognizing faces four hours in a bar alone.
it's even harder trying not to look the smallest underneath all the temporary hovering smoke. but you still know who you are. you know yourself. self-concept. self-esteem. well, a little.
you still pat your pockets for your keys as another drink-ordering ghost makes a joke in your ear about walking, or hitching a ride home from here. walking home would be a great end to four hours in a bar alone.
"yeah, i'm in the band. mary.."
"ok. so you know about the drinks?"
"n-,"
"they're free. just remember to tip your bartender..."
blahty blah i think, and walk up the stairs to the stage i've never seen before. the michelob mix-ups and fake i.d. fumbles haven't even begun.
four more hours in this bar alone. i think i'll go crazy and rip these floorboards apart. or what is left of them.
they shut off jimi hendrix halfway while my intestines are aching and weasel the sound guy (his name isn't really weasel. i just call him that. he has this small face and really long hair. wears purple jeans and tazmanian devil t-shirts.) shouts back, "hey, i was listening to that!"
four hours in a bar alone is harder than you think.