The Bar

There is a bar on West 54th street where people go to get away. There isn’t really one specific kind of person that hangs out there, but they all have one thing in common: they’ve got nowhere better to be. Some of them just found their significant cheating on them, some of them just lost their jobs, and some of them did both of those a really long time ago. They're all drunk, but not drunk enough to get rowdy. Just drunk enough to forget they exist. Nobody vomits in the bar, and there are never any fights. It’s always quiet in that bar, the silence only punctuated by the occasional mumbled call for another drink. Most of the people there lean their elbows against the bar, and prop up their heads with the arm attached to that elbow. Some of them look asleep, sitting there with their face down. But they aren’t really asleep. They just don’t want anybody to talk to them. But nobody ever comes into the bar looking for a conversation or a good time. But nobody’s there for a bad time, either. They’re all just sitting there, because they know that nobody will disturb them. They can just sit around and think about not thinking about whatever got them there. It is the most comfortable place in the world. They do what they want, which is nothing. The owner doesn't make much money, but enough to survive. The lighting is dim, and the bathroom is relatively clean. Some people smoke cigarettes. Some don’t. Nobody cares.
At around four, when the first rays of sun start shining in, people start to clear out. They leave money at the tables. They aren’t paying for the liquor. After the last customer exits, the bartender and waiter hang a big closed sign above the door. They begin to clean up. And when the bar opens at eleven, they’re ready, ready to accept the new crowd of broken souls, ready to provide a safe space for them to feel better, ready to make them feel comfortable and accepted, ready to let them know that everything would be better soon, and even if it wasn’t, they’d always have the bar to come to.