With a bottle of Gin
“What you doin’ in a place like this, doll?”
I pause in the act of shading my newest addition on the back wall of the bar. It’s a colorful, eclectic collage of drawings I’ve made during my time here. The regulars call it “Jo’s Wall.”
“You know the reason, Fred,” I answer. He nods and knocks on the bar, his signal for another shot.
“ Donna Jo, you slackin’ out there?” My boss’s bellows pierce stale morning air.
“Keep your pants on Max!” I shout back. I pour Fred’s shot.
I’m paying for art school with a bottle of gin.