Usually I Sit at the Bar

Usually I Sit at the Bar

Asked to do a review of a recent film, I sat in one of the booths close to the door of the really big, two-story, wooden bar and, I think, grill (with an “e” on the end)

although I couldn’t understand why, because I never, ever saw food and the place didn’t rate an “e” if there had been food given every thing else about the place.

Usually I sit at the bar and for a little while I did, but when I wrote, I was in the booth.  I got up and noticed that two, rough-looking guys were coming down the sandy street and

jumped into the back of my 1980 red Mustang.  I rushed across the street yelling, “Hey, no smoking in my car.”  The skinny, scruffy looking guy

with the cigarette dropped it on the seat on purpose, because I saw the smirk on his face, but I grabbed the cigarette before it could burn a hole in the red,

velvety upholstery and dragged the guy out of the car.  The other guy came along. I’m not sure how that happened, because I had to reach over one guy

to get at the guy who purposely dropped the cigarette on the seat. Apparently that was the end of that because they disappeared and I walked home for

some reason leaving the Mustang where it was.  Passing a golf course I saw some golf balls embedded in the sand traps and along the back fence

behind a green.  I stopped and picked up quite a few putting them in my pockets. When I looked up I saw the owners of the bar, a man and woman and someone else, sitting

outside their little row house laughing at me.  I waved them off and continued walking toward home wherever that was.

I don’t know if I was using my computer to write the review, but I didn’t have it with me when I left the big, two storied wooden bar and, for the life of me, I can’t understand why I

left the 1980 red Mustang parked on the street near that really big wooden bar and grille. My pants pockets bulged with sand and golf balls.

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