Bullshit reigns at the bar. Bruce Springsteen’s “Atlantic City” plays. I think of that forgotten Burt Lancaster classic from 1980, Atlantic City, with a young Susan Sarandon. Was I the only one who saw it?
A pickup pool tournament unfolds with staccato bursts of profanity.
An OTA man drinks a long neck Miller and holds it funny.
Cinderblock construction. A true dive. Someone died in here, I can feel it.
Four thin strips of glass block throw dirty light onto the carpet.
A vacuum cleaner stands upright in the middle of the joint. Vacuum for five minutes and earn a free shot of Crown.
Two overhead fans fan.
Video Lottery mesmerizes an OTA man who weighs less than a hundred pounds.
Two OTA women watch vintage cartoons on their phones.
Someone wrote a novel in here, I can feel it. Nobody read it. I wrote a novel that nobody read. Nobody ever will.
There is a struggle to survive among the patrons. It suffuses the air. We are on the precipice as a country.
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