Shit Show

The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly glow on the cracked linoleum floor. The bartender–a grizzled soul with nicotine-stained fingers, wiped down the counter. His name? Hell, nobody knew. They just called him “Barkeep.”

“Another round?” he grunted, sliding a glass toward me.

The whiskey tasted like remorse and gasoline. I nodded because what else was there to do?

The regulars huddled in their usual spots—lost souls nursing wounds that wouldn’t heal. There was Old Man Joe, his liver pickled by decades of cheap bourbon. He had fought in Korea, but nowadays, his battles are with the jukebox. He’d curse Sinatra and croon along to Hank Williams.

And then there was Sad-Eyed Sally. She wore too much eyeliner as if trying to hide the world’s disappointments. Her laugh? A rusty hinge. She’d lost a husband, a dog, and her faith in humanity. But she still believed in happy hour.

“You know,” she slurred, leaning across the bar, “life’s a shitshow. Might as well dance in the rain.”

Outside, the rain tapped on the window like a desperate lover. The alley cats yowled, and the city coughed up its secrets. Bukowski would’ve loved this place—the sticky floors, the broken jukebox, the smell of desperation.

“What’s your poison?” Barkeep asked, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days.

“Life,” I replied. “Pour me a double.”

He obliged, and I stared into the murky depths. The mirror behind the bar reflected my weariness—the lines etched by missed chances, the eyes haunted by lost loves.

“You’re a writer, ain’t ya?” Barkeep squinted at me.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Words are my whiskey.”

“Well, kid,” he said, “Bukowski once sat right where you’re sittin’. Wrote poems about broken hearts and broken bottles. Said life was a beautiful catastrophe.”

And so, I wrote. Scribbled on napkins, spilled ink on coasters. My muse? The jukebox, belting out Tom Waits. The patrons? My characters—flawed, desperate, and achingly real.

Sad-Eyed Sally swayed to the music, her mascara running. Old Man Joe hummed along, lost in memories of lost wars. And Barkeep? He poured another round because that’s what he did.

As the night wore on, I penned my Bukowski homage—a love letter to the damned, the dreamers, and the drunks. The rain outside? It wept for us all.

And when the clock struck closing time, I left the dive bar, my pockets lighter, my soul heavier. Bukowski would’ve approved.

“Keep writing,” Barkeep boomed. “Maybe one day, they’ll remember your name.”

And so, I stumbled into the rain, my words trailing behind me like cigarette smoke: “Remember, my friend: Life’s a shitshow. We might as well dance in the rain.”