Sticky Bars and North Face Jackets

There is something familiar and oddly comforting about the sticky smell of a bar steeped in Grand Marnier - sloppy bartender spills that never come fully clean like the regular patrons and their life stories. I take my self-relegated spot in the corner for the best vantage point so I can peer down the long bar and scan the return. Men sit with their wives glancing over at me with a curious stare, and the heavy-handed pianist plays a familiar tune from yesteryear, a jumbled blur of chords equally weighted making it difficult to discern - a heavy affliction like my right leg that has fallen asleep.

They come in with their North Face jackets in a sea of gray. The heavy chatter like the chords that fill the air have a lumbering pentameter, and I can sense there is nothing of importance being said. It’s dinnertime and the sticky smell is now eclipsed by prime rib and fried onion rings. The fact that this smell becomes a consideration in my decision to stay or go makes me feel like Pavlov's dog. It's warm in here, and now I’m wiping my upper lip with my right hand - surely I should go. I order another glass of Sauvignon Blanc. The pianist rushes through an Elton John song with the indiscriminate speed of an auctioneer...and now Desperado with all of the sensitivity of a ragtime musical. But the smell of prime rib anchors my spot. I don’t know why. I'm a vegetarian. Perhaps I am clinging to the fact that it’s the smell of something that was once alive. The couples filter out, the women lead and the men stumble behind, like they're being led out of a dark tunnel by a search and rescue party. There are two more days until our Presidential election - before everything changes. The pianist comes back from her break and plays - "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" by The Clash. No, she doesn't - that's what's playing in my head. I order the onion rings and call it a night.