>Tuesday night beverages have become something of a ritual with me and Candy.

We usually stop by a downtown brewery then occasionally head over to a local hole-in-the-wall pub for “just one more”.

Last night was one of the latter.

We walked in and I immediately perked up upon hearing Johnny Cash blaring from the juke box. (It’s a weakness, what can I say?) We settle in and I begin waxing poetic about the comfort found only in a blue-collar hole-in-the-wall-check-the-forks-are-you-sure-you’re-hungry-enough-to-actually-eat-here bar.

“Maybe I’ll get a part-time job as a bartender somewhere,” I think I said aloud.

Seems like it could be a relatively simple social function working a couple of nights a week in a “shot and a beer” kind of place. I pondered (probably aloud) the lifestyle of the friendly bibs-wearing bartender. We’d stopped in the night before I left for a vacation in Seattle and had talked to her for a few minutes longer than normal. Having learned she was headed to Denver around the same time my flight was departing, I admit that I did keep and eye out for her at the airport the next day. The memory became even more clear as I realized that she was wearing the same outfit she had on last year at the airport. In fact, I think she has been wearing those bibs nearly every time I’ve seen her.

Hm… bohemian.

I head up to the bar, still romanticizing. I hadn’t expected it.

She had a huge blue bruise along her cheekbone, accentuated by a single bandaid.

Suddenly my daydreaming came to an end.

I eavesdropped as another woman took the bait.

Apparently, she’d been in a “bike accident”.


I immediately hated any man she’d ever met.

I’ve been in a couple of bicycle accidents along the way and have yet to show damage similar to our bibbed bartender.

Not fully believing the overheard conversation, I took the beverages back to the table and shared the story.

Tales of domestic abuse cover ups were bantered about. Theories were concocted and quickly dismissed as Candy went for another round.

“Bike means motorcycle. She’s telling it like she’s told it 200 times and she’s still pissed.

Moral of the story?

Be careful on motorcycles.

Don’t dream of working in a hole-in-the-wall bar.

If you think you’re in trouble (or will be in trouble), have a workable plan.


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