The Warm Insides of a Drunk

It must had been in the mid 30s; I saw my breath rising under the rickety street lamp, but I didn't feel the slightest bit of chill on account of all the booze coursing through my veins. I looked back at the bar. A moment ago it was bright and lively. Now it was dark and dead. Henry, the bartender, was never very nice. He would never let me sleep inside the bar, no matter how drunk I was or how horridly cold it was outside - probably afraid I would wake up in the middle of the night and help myself. But, he would always let me back in the next day, and, every now and then, he'd let me slide and run up a tab until I got my check from the VA. I had gone and fought in Nam, well, almost, I had almost gone and fought in Nam, until, thankfully, my incompetent superior got me injured during an exercise and discharged. In the end, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me - I never had to kill anyone, I never made an orphan, and I got paid. I pulled my coloroid jacket tight and began walking towards the apartment I was staying at. Janet, the landlady, wasn't very nice either, neither was she much to look at, neither was I. But, every now and then, she'd wrap me between her legs and made me work off my rent whenever I was short. It was rather shameful, but after a few shots of whatever that was laying around, it wasn't too bad, and, besides, she was the most consistent laid I’d ever had. I was short again that month.

--- a tribute to Charles Bukowski ---

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