This story was the result of a prompt from the best workshop in which I ever participated, For The Love of Writing. Administered by Stacy Taylor and Laurie O’Hare, two of the most brilliant women I know, it was probably the most prolific period of flash fiction writing I’ve ever had. Good times, and I miss it.
I never liked New Year’s. Since I work second shift in a shit hole, by the time I get off there’s not enough time to get a good buzz on by midnight. Not that’s it’s busy in this place, but the atmosphere is just the way I like it. I tell the bartender to line up the shots and I munch on the free pretzels in the crummy plastic bowl while his fat ass takes its sweet time.
I can see the piano dude is taking another break. Jesus, that guy breaks more than he plays. I wish I could work like that, but one fifteen-minute break at six and a lunch break at eight is all I get. I came in here right at the stroke of quarter after eleven, still dirty, sweaty, and smelling from the factory. One time, a girl at the bar slid over a bar of scummy soap from the bathroom and said, “Hey, give this a shot”. Some pick up line. This is the same chick that told Al she wanted desalinized water for her drink. I laughed fit to split at the look on Al’s face.