I grant you this place isn’t the most elegant firetrap in the world, but I like it. It’s the place I start my days. I’m not sure what it’s called officially. I call it Jerry’s because Jerry’s the bartender.
He’s a good egg, doesn’t hassle me. Lets me smoke cigarettes at the bar with my coffee and my paper until noon or until somebody else comes in. He puts the coffee in a proper cup with a saucer, then tops it off with a generous splash of his cheapest vodka, just like I like it. He even puts a spoon on a napkin for me as if it’s a fine dining place.
Jerry must be about a thousand years old. The bartender time forgot. I guess you might say he looks after me. Not that I demand much. Just some peace, quiet, and anonymity to wind down my wasted life.
For instance, a couple of evenings ago, this guy comes in asking about me. Linen suit, shined shoes, cloying cologne slicing through the stench of this old barroom. […]
