I liked to drink in dives.
These were bad places.
Shithole bars with fruit flies in my shot glass.
I drank in such a place on Chicago Avenue.
Folks dealt rock in a decrepit empty lot right next to it.
I didn't care.
The addicts never noticed me.
They were playing out their own scenarios.
I sat at the bar, drunk.
I observed human dramas as they unfolded.
I was the only white face in this particular place.
I was not afraid.
I was always treated with respect.
Maybe they thought I was a narc.
The music on the box was good.
People were friendly.
They were happy it was Saturday.
They were poor, beat and down-and-out.
They were just like me.
We drank cheap bar whiskey.
We sat under florescent lights.
You know, just like the kind they hang in factories.
This is ironic ambience, Chicago style.
I danced with toothless hags twice my age.
I guess I made them happy.
I lost my front teeth in there.
Some dude blindsided me.
Actually I lost the caps.
The originals were lost in a car accident.
I fell asleep at the wheel.
I came to a sudden stop.
I had two black eyes and the missing teeth.
I had an instant Halloween face.
Cars were toughter on me, than any man I ever fought.
I met a lot of people in dives.
Believe me, the dives are more honest.
When I was flush, the nice clubs were filled with jerks.
They tried to play too many games on me.
You're your own best friend, when you are an alkie.
An alkie never has to meet anyone, unless he needs money.
People are despicable.
When you are at rock-bottom, hatred rules your life.
Sometimes, I saw the light from the bottom.
When I was straight, I got bored.
I longed for the bottom.
The longer I stayed sober, the more I forgot the pain.
Nothing ever works right in this world.