(previous iterations here and here.)

there’s a drunk off in the corner who’s so tanked he’s speaking only in vowels, and the way the bartender scrubs and scrubs on the same spot makes me wonder how clean everything else is. i order bourbon on rocks and receive bourbon neat. close enough.

an attractive woman sitting alone keeps on looking at her watch and sipping from a martini glass. as i eye her, the bartender, he asks, “you interested?” and i realize it’s no coincidence that there’s a pay-by-the-hour hotel two blocks up.

the bedbugs, they probably aren’t the most repelling things there.

this loser tending bar, he says that no, i can’t smoke inside, but if i need to and i’m discreet about it, i can take my bourbon outside on the stoop and smoke there.

there’s an nypd precinct across the street, so the guy who’s packing heat isn’t really out of place. the bar’s laid-out in a sort-of l shape, and even though the space isn’t big, there are lots of dark corners.

if no one feeds money in the jukebox, the only sounds come out of the busted tvs and from traffic outside. this isn’t the place to come to “hang out” in. to “talk.”

this dump, it’s so far uptown that the metro north trains, as they emerge from under ground at one-hundred and tenth street and use elevated tracks after that, keep on setting off car alarms. here, there’s no beer on tap, just cans.

this musty hole smells like your first new york city apartment. it smells like dirty laundry piled up on top of some sawdust. kinda smells like old food. like a backed-up vacuum cleaner. there aren’t any candles or deodorizers.

the tin ceiling makes perfect cell-phone reception out of the question. the lighting doesn’t at all seem energy-efficient.

eventually, the bourbon starts coming with ice. finally, someone spends a buck to hear some tunes. sooner or later, the dude with the gun, he gets up and leaves, and the probably-hooker, she finds her probably-john.

all of this, and dollar bills—ones, fives, maybe a ten—pile up in front of bourbon number who-knows-what. the elbow of my blazer snags on the rough, unpolished wood.

no one’s spoken in what seems like ages, and as i slide on my overcoat, i leave the money there on the counter knowing that an immediate departure is the only way to preserve the bliss.