Every town has a bar that lets in young riff raff. People who might appear to barely be 21 and therefore don’t bother to ask. And when a guy like me goes to a bar like that, I never ask how old a girl is because it’s her responsibility to obey the laws of the state of Michigan. And at the beginning of this story, we’ll join my evening in progress on a normal Thursday night at my favorite local dive bar. They were the only bar in town that served Guinness but for whatever reason, the place was always empty and beer was filthy cheap. So, on any given night, you might find me in there either drinking a Guinness before heading to bed or drinking a cheap beer in an effort to get blindly wasted to forget all of the stress that comes with graduate school.
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I’ve said before that I’m a horrible person. I’ve also said that I make really bad decisions. But sometimes in life, I do something that truly brings to light both my questionable morals as well as my poor decision making. And this was the case for about a three day period of my life in Michigan, which will be the focus of the next two chapters. At this point, I wasn’t even an alcoholic anymore, just a short-term man whore.
And eventhough I was single, I spent most of my time at this bar belly up to the counter, in the seat nearest the beer dispenser, sometimes talking to friends, sometimes to the bartender, but rarely trying to seduce anyone. Mostly because, like most dive bars, you go there for the cheap beers and the solitude, not the wrinkly, haggish, old cougars that are drinking away the rest of their complexion and chain smoking so much that their skin literally changes color. The bartender was pretty hot. And while I’ve been known to dip my pen in company ink, I would never sleep with a bartender at my favorite bar because that’s got to be the stupidest thing a person could do. So, most of my nights there were spent in a quiet stupor.
But on this Thursday night, there was a band and a lot of people in the place.