The Hideoutby Bill Tuomala
It's in another part of town, otherwise you'd be a regular going broke there. The once-hot blonde waitress with the husky voice calls you "hon." The always-smiling bartender gets you another cold one before he heads outside for a cigarette, then returns to talk about live music. The pretty girls tend to have a smile and an arm-tap "hi." The pinball machines give up match free games more often then anywhere else. The drunks leave you alone and don't talk on and on and forever and ever.
It's where to go when you want to fade into the woodwork for a couple of hours. The place to be when all is not yet quite lost, but you don't want to be home when the other shoe drops. The destination when you want to kill a weekend afternoon in January when it's way too fucking sunny out. The spot to go when you absolutely want to be away from the phone and email and want no chance in hell of running into anyone you know. The joint to swing by on those summer return trips from up north when you want some dark air-conditioned cold and something to wash down that road dust.
It's your hideout and it's yours all yours and not even on your deathbed, with the masses begging, will it be revealed. Amen, baby, amen.