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Sitting on a stool at a hole in the wall joint called, “The Don’t Drink and Drive Bar.”  The place smells like day old burger grease with a dash of lemon scented Pine-Sol.  I was on my way out to Denver, but I had to stop for the night.  I needed to sleep. The road was starting to look like a long black coiled snake, waiting to strike.

The roadside motel was nice enough, but the moment I put my head on that starched white pillow case, I was wide awake. So I sit here, eating fries that are too crispy, a hot sandwich that’s too cold and drinking a martini that’s too bruised. I could live with it, but I was getting sick and tired of hearing Garth Brooks saying he has friends in low places over and over. Obviously he has never met me.

At the other end of the bar, sat a woman who looked like a long lost mother. She had those extra long Virginia Slims in her hand, the smoke encasing her head and hands. She was sucking them down to the nub as quick as a thirsty drunk would suck up beer through a straw. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying. Or maybe it was that all that smoke was finally bugging her. She went over and put another quarter in the jukebox. She must of had a crush on Mr. Brooks, or maybe her husband left her, but it’s likely that she lost her puppy.

I didn’t care, I just needed some sleep. I knew that I’ll end up having a nightmare with some guy with an acoustic guitar, breathing smoke saying I’m not low enough to be his friend. I need to get out of here.

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