He shot the whiskey, felt it worm down his throat and warm his belly. He asked for another. On a small stage, the band played Eric Clapton, but not with the passion, gusto, or, dammit, the talent of Sir Eric. It wasn’t fair to expect more in a room where he, a woman at the bar, a smattering of loud drunks, and the bartender were the only ones in the audience. He knew it wasn’t fair, but it was what it was. He was in the oldest bar in Alaska; it was dim, but not dark. The woman at the end of the bar saw him and smiled.
He shot the whiskey, felt it worm down his throat and warm his belly. He asked for another. She looked like Nancy: Straight brown hair, a rounded nose, full lips, almond shaped eyes. He would have gone to her but he didn’t trust his legs to hold him. Instead, he tipped his Fedora and raised his glass at her.
He shot the whiskey, felt it worm down his throat and warm his belly. He asked for another. He motioned the woman over. It was thirty degrees outside in downtown Juneau, and here she was, in the oldest bar in Alaska, beneath a hotel that once housed the first brothel in Alaska, wearing a blouse with short sleeves and a skirt that allowed him to see all the way to the tippy tops of her legs.
He shot the whiskey, felt it worm down his throat and warm his belly. He demanded another as she slithered up to next to him. Her almond shaped eyes were green. She smelled like cinnamon and brandy. With warm breath, she whispered vulgar suggestions into his ear. He felt her hands on his thigh, a warm courage building in his stomach. She reminded him of Nancy. Even more next to him. Nancy was why he was here, four drinks in. Five now. Maybe six? He couldn’t be sure.
He shot the whiskey, felt it worm down his throat and warm his belly. He asked for another. There was a song once: “You can’t call it cheatin’, ‘cause she reminds me of you.” He wondered if the band butchering Clapton knew this song. He wondered if it were true. The woman said she already had a room and she gave him the number as she slithered away. He would join her upstairs in five minutes.
He shot the whiskey, felt it worm down his throat into his warm belly. He asked for another. He was looking for courage. He was trying to make it right. She reminded him of Nancy. That might have made it okay, but instead, he grabbed his jacket from behind his seat, paid his tab, tipped his fedora to the bartender and stumbled out the door into the biting cold, away from the oldest bar in Alaska.
