DOWNPOUR

I held the frosty pint glass to my face for relief, well, what used to be my face at least. I lit another 27 and frisbeed my zippo back on to the bar as I nodded for another shot. What they don’t tell you about getting blood in your eyes is that you don’t actually see red, you don’t see anything at all. Anyway….

In he came through the half door, a bushwhacked pilgrim. I blew a smoke ring.

 He donned a grey beard almost as long as the pack he carried on his back, the kind you see used for long trips, maybe a vacation, something I felt he was not on.

His IPA was already waiting for him on the bar. Weary traveler, you have my attention.

The smoke from his pipe weaved its way through his leathery wrinkles in the same manner snow does on the highway. I drank when he drank. I smoked when he smoked. If his arms were crossed, so were mine. The Chameleon effect, just like my father taught me.

By the time he looked in my direction my eyes were welled up to the lashes and my past had me by the throat. His blue clashed with my hazel. He gave a wink and held his glass high, slowly, as did I . My lip began to quake, and that’s when he said:

“Pour the liquor till we drown”.