The Tragically Short Life of the American Barfly

by Tyler Berg

It's midnight on a Monday and I'm kicking rocks down State Street.
Just another faceless vagrant traversing the closest thing this city has to a metropolitan thoroughfare.
I blend in you see, an inconspicuous element in a dubious compound, just another gnat buzzing towards the garish green beacon of an "Irish Pub"
I heave a sigh of gratitude as my boot thumps reassuringly against the scarred hardwood and I breathe in the bouquet of the bar room, cigarette smoke and drakkar noir invades my olfactory faculties.
Tomorrow I will once again take upon myself the leaden yoke of provider, the age old mantle of a decent man, the eight hour stretch that puts food on the table and gas in the car.
That is then and the devil reigns in the here and now.
Tonight  I am the barfly and tomorrow I die.