It’s summer, rainy season. So I’ve been holed up in this little “No Gaijin” watering hole all afternoon. There are only three people to give me the stink-eye; two of them are. There’s the tired old barkeep with a shaved head, ink peeking over his collar, and a stub of a pinky – Yakuza reject. There’s a whore with the body of a gymnast and the face of a tomato-picker. The other one, let’s call him Mr. Rumplesuite, is a salaryman hunched over the bar oblivious to the hooker’s whispered enticements or the barkeep’s glower.
The barman thinks he’s sticking it to me by giving me bottom-shelf bourbon. So what if it burns going down, no smooth smoky flavor here. That burn is the alcohol.
Grief counselors don’t tell you about the stage in which you go through life just looking for a fight. I won’t find one here, so I stagger out into the drizzle to make new enemies.