Feb 2019 28


This place is like nowhere I ever go. Red vinyl booths, with dark, rich wood tops. Rows of small tables embrace a stage where a man in a crushed velvet suit gets ready to groan out some ballads of love lost. The whole place is lit only by the candles on each table, encased in smoky glass, giving a moody ethereal glow.

This is going to be a great show, and I’m here just in time.

I wander up to the bar, also red vinyl with a smooth chocolate surface, surrounded by high-backed stools. I perch myself on one and wait.

This is kind of place where someone could sit in the stool next to me and slyly palm me some microfilm. Maybe it’s blood-stained cause they have been stabbed. And then they stumble out and die in the back alley. Yes.

A bartender appears. White tuxedo. He says nothing, and hands me a drink menu.

I unfold it to reveal… Highballs. Old fashioneds. Cocktails. The kind you have long conversations with.

“Do you have any non-alcohol beer?”

The bartender looks disgusted with me.

And then I wake up.

Now I don’t even drink in my dreams. Shit. I suppose this is progress?

Fuck, I wanted that microfilm.


Writer’s note: this dream happened last week.