ye doomed

      The lights in Harry’s pub gave off a green, ominous hue which flowed right onto the sidewalk through two narrow rectangular stained-glass windows in the door. If you were in the right state of mind or on the right drugs, it resembled some b-movie haunted house. The exterior was dark and bare, night and day, except for the white 1x2’ handwritten sign taped beside the door. The words “only ye doomed may enter here” scrawled in red marker, were worn and barely legible on the weathered poster.
         The front door was made of blackened steel, weathered, stood eight-feet-tall, three-feet-wide - only the mighty hammer of Thor himself could be used to smith such a demoralizing entrance. It swung slow and moaned something fierce like a car scraping along a guardrail at 80 miles per hour. An unseasonable gust would surely test your might and character but Tuesday evening, though cold, remained silent. Steady. Check your liver at the door. A weak liver could never pry open this castle’s gate. I braced, pulled and slid through the quickly narrowing death trap.
         The booming wreckage behind me did nothing to take away from the gruesome choir waiting for me inside. Their faces were long, told of remorse but their eyes said otherwise - they’d found themselves. These were lost souls driven through life’s most difficult terrain ultimately finding solace in dimly lit rooms. They could never make it in a corner office or sales. “might as well wear a damn BELL and face-fuck some grain!” Harry once shouted in my face. Hell, I don’t think half of them even spoke  -  not even about the weather, America’s conversation appetizer. The only degrees most of them were interested in were first, second or third.
         Just then a Wild Turkey on the rocks slid my way, careening toward certain disaster at the edge of the bar. I lashed my right hand out - got it.  I would hate to see some of my own blood go to waste. Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” was just coming to an end and drink in hand, it was my turn to act. I navigated that crude Crosley machine like only its maker could, choosing Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” as I did every time. i took my seat behind the drink. The uproar always lasted until the first verse when it became show time. Clearly tired, I was definitely thinking COLD.
         Harry looked at least twenty years older than his driver’s license read. 27. He stood about six-feet-tall, and was clearly a few pounds heavier than his touted “two-hundred-and-somethings.” The man’s head was comparable to that of a mature black bear with hair to match. A patchy beard swung around his jaw, some spots thick, some bare. Harry dressed well, but in nothing fancier than an embroidered t-shirt and dark, clean jeans. He was usually far more drunk than anyone else he served, with a heart just as tumultuously inebriated. Every night had the most fantastic, hideous displays of  human emotion which looked like bad acting or the futile attempts of some liquor laden, ravenous birthday clown. His head swung low and loose with eyes noticeably slow in following. On any given night his drunkenness would take both love and hate to horrendous extremes, as if tearing the fabric of his existence before your eyes.
         Peering through the mingling ghouls, I noticed Harry climbing over the bar, flailing, as if his life depended on it. A dark and calm young woman sat on the receiving end of his commotion and stared blankly in her drink. “I’m the KING of ….he wailed then paused, smelling the air for prey like some curious, starving creature. “of my.. own.. mind?” he continued questioning his statement. Harry was a king in his own right. This was one of the few human beings that didn’t give a damn about anything. I envied his naivety since the day we met. I slurped the rest of the watery whiskey and slid my glass forward keeping my eyes closed. 
         I was immediately staring through the bottom of another tall glass when I realized I was talking out loud. “The mirrors of perception,“ I kept muttering. My mind grew dark, I was getting drunk. No longer focusing on the REAL, the concrete. My barstool felt like it could tip over at any moment so I sent my right leg to quell the insisting nausea. I hadn’t eaten anything all day - the perfect opportunity for defeating these toxic assassins. I pushed them out as quickly as they came in. I was clearly tempting fate tonight, ignoring any astrological disasters the supermarket aisle would have surely predicted. On the verge of blackness, I slipped between what appeared to be two Amazonian descendants. Look at this man of one-ninety, these gigantic women must have thought. A cross-eyed young man on the brink of self-defecating through his mouth.
         Gliding faster, faces joined forming one, consistent blur. Thank God. I plowed through the men’s room door using only the crown of my head. The door was loose, too loose for such a dramatic entrance, bounced and swung straight back onto the left side of my face. I felt nothing but the short line of blood above my brow confirmed tomorrow’s headache. A man’s focus is not so much accuracy in this situation - It’s stability and my brain was clearly losing the battle. The reward is knowing you’ve successfully urinated in the respectable facilities. Consequently, the bonus is enjoying the thought of how the next person may struggle in your foul pool. Tip the man pumping soap in your hand - he must be skilled in the custodial arts as well. I slipped my last dollar in the Charlie Chaplin hat.
         The door swung wide once again as if it had no weight at all. Silence. The Crosley had stopped. Conversation was still non-existent. Harry was gone.  I was in no condition to be concerned - He handled his business and like any businessman, money was all he was after. The bar was practically for his personal entertainment. This was little money made compared to his real profession.