The Art of Watching Alcoholics Die through A Lotto Window of a Small Local Bar in Westbank

When Neil's wife died, we all looked at eachother, as if it weren't possible that Neil surpassed his wife.
How could Neil live. That drunk!
It happened again. Weeks later.

Roy died.
Lively, vital, and British.

When the new girl told me Roy died, all i could see was Neil wavering at the bus stop, waiting to cross the street, holding on for dear life. If a wind were to blow, Neil would go.

Busses passed. Lotto's were won. Roy died. Neil was there, leaning to and fro, waiting for the 21 Night Route, with his Phymatous rosacea  in place. I pretended i didn't see him. Other regulars from the shop honked at him. He never budged.

The functioning alcoholic.
The non-functioning, the one who should have left.

Its sad, if Neil died, people would say "Oh, bummer....it was a matter of time" and no tears.
it's like he wants to be dead.
Roy wasn't like him at all.

And in the meantime all the waitresses are talking about the shit Jay-z concert they went to.

myself, too concerned with maybe having a spatial infection...tried to care less.

Small town party.

jager bombs, big trucks, fake titties, dumb, crappy musicians, mall fashion, pub food, illiteracy.

i'm thinking "slaves" as i stock the beers. Like i could ever cry.
This shit.