Back Bar Mirror

One man, at the end of the bar, was mixing his punch lines and jokes. They came out in a predictable pace, such that you knew when to laugh, or when not to, as the bartender chose to do. There were other characters surrounding me, and I peered at them in the back bar mirror, failing to distinguish myself from the others. 'Whose that schlub?' I thought.

I was getting a little desperate for a metaphor as I played pool. People came and left. No one had scene an old friend of mine who was rumored to have been taken by the meth fairy. But re-racking wouldn't bring her back. I pushed that trite thought from my head.

The guy who had said the name of the Scottish Play on the opening night of one of my plays invited me and a friend of his to go shooting in the hills. I agreed.

The massive pickup powered through the rain. I couldn't see where we were going. We finally got out and cut down a tree with shotgun fire.

"What are you working on?" somebody asked. "Am I in it?"

I think people liked hanging out with me because it was rumored I stole a conversation word for word and published it. Immortality isn't a big red pickup.

'Immortality isn't a big red pickup,' he said pointing out a bullet hole in the drivers side.

Back in town and at my apartment, I waded through rejection notices. Thuraly drunk, I filled them away.