I loosen up my tie and I ask the waitress for bourbon and ice. She fetches it and I tell her to leave the bottle. I give her a pat on the ass as I sit to the table and she glares at me with a murderous scowl. Her tight ass barely gave underneath my palm. I tell her act as though it hadn't happened. Don't worry I tip well, I add.

The sailors hang out over by the jukebox that plays some new stuff that I couldn't care less about. Every once in a while the record would switch and would play some hillbilly stuff and they'd get pissed. While they went to chase some young tail out in the street, some redneck would change the record. They'd come running back in once they heard that twang of that banjo. They'd come in with their face boiling and spit coming from their mouth. One of them would yell, asking everybody who changed the record, but no one would answer. After a while things would cool down once they were distracted by something a bit more interesting. Something like free booze or another girl with a low cut shirt and her shorts riding up her ass. But sometimes, sometimes an unwary redneck would get it though.

I finish off my glass chewing away on the ice cubes that came with it. I didn't think about leaving any for another drink and I didn't want to bother the waitress again. Well, I don't care about bothering her, but I just don't want her coming around all the time asking if I needed anything. I didn't need her to come around when she wasn't needed. I pour another glass and sip it. The liquid runs fiery down my throat, warming my chest. Dipping my hand into the bowl full of peanuts, I take a look at my watch as I do this and shovel the handful into my mouth. All I've got is time.

It's about time the night workers get off. They start piling in to escape the heat or to make things hotter. Some of them are covered with filth where they become different people. They'd walk in shuffling their boots and wiping their brow keeping the sweat out of their eyes. You see, these sailors already have poison running through their blood so they jump on those workers as soon as they walk in through the door. They'd tell them that they didn't want their kind here. They'd yell that niggers don't need anything to drink. Whether these people happened to be niggers or not, they'd still get crap from theses guys because of the dirt that covered their bodies. They didn't care; at least not for now. The workers would continue on, dragging their nearly lifeless bodies to the counter to get something to drink. Whether it be minutes or hours, once they had their drink, someone started caring.

It's getting late and the bottle I started on is close to empty. At some point, I remember having plenty of time, but as I look at my watch I realize some people don't have a knack for being punctual. As I became more aware of the time, I became more aware of my appearance. At one point in my being here, I remembered I was fairly well dressed. I usually wore my best suit for such occasions. By now I had looked as though I had been on an overnight drunk. My hat is dented on a single side, my tie is lying on the floor wallowing in dirt and alcohol, and a few buttons from my shirt are missing. I'm sweating and I can feel my shirt stick to my back. The sweat beads and rolls down my forehead and through my eyebrows. I don't wipe them away and I let them roll into my eye. It burns and out of the other eye I see that same waitress walk in my direction.

'Can I get you something for your eye?'� She asks as I violently rub at it, making my face red. I told her to leave me alone or was going to stab her in her throat. She started to laugh and I stopped rubbing my burning eye. Her grin saddened and her eyes widened.

I picked up my hat from the table and ran in the direction of the bathroom. I vomit into one of the porcelain sinks. After a second, I realized that I wasn't the first to have disgraced the sink, but didn't care to wash it out. A man came out of one of the stalls behind me and washed his hands in the only clean sink. He was old. Probably about sixty and still wearing his work cover-alls. I look at him and he looks at me and I remember I haven't shaved in a couple of days. I can feel large chunks of whatever I had eaten from earlier in the day collecting in the stubble around my chin. I tell him sorry and he never looks at me again. He leaves hastily without saying a word and I begin to straighten myself out. I take my jacket off to roll up my sleeves and I wash my face and arms with cold water.

I can feel my head start to clear up and I feel a bit better. I look into the mirror and the person that I was once familiar with isn't the same person that I see now. This person is much older and a hell of a lot more tired than they were when they had started out. The rings under my eyes are dark and swollen. My cheeks are high and withdrawn. I haven't eaten in days and I tell myself that I cannot do this anymore. I still have about ten years, but considering what I look like know, would it be worth it? I tell my self that this is the end and I really believe myself this time.

I pull out a handful of paper towels from the steel canister and dry myself. I throw the damp paper, along with the filthy tie, into the wastebasket. I unravel my sleeves and button my cuffs. I walk out and I see a man sitting at the table where I once sat. The man sits alone and drinks from a bottle as I had. Don't drink so fast, I say to myself. I put my jacket back on and I feel that familiar lump knock up against my ribs. I can never forget that same old .32 that once burned a hole in my pocket, just itching to see daylight. But it's tired. Not today, I say to myself. Not this time.

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