He was sitting in one of his favorite bars somewhere over Iowa or some other state he never planned to visit. This bar was terrific because they more than insisted on the guests staying seated. He also liked that the soda water was always fizzy.
It was a mid-afternoon cross country flight. The only chatter he heard while . . .
Throwing his bag on the neatly made hotel bed, he hurriedly checked his watch. After a small delay at the airport, he still had enough time to make it. Quickly he unpacked and hung up anything that could get easily wrinkled. He kicked off his boots, slipped on a pair of loafers, and grabbed his worn-out blue chore coat before . . .
In red neon cursive "BAR" glowed in the afternoon shade. Before pushing the door open, he respectfully unrolled the sleeves of the striped blue Oxford down to his wrists concealing the faded lines inked into his skin. The humidity outside permitted a less formal approach, but the small brass sign on the door clearly . . .
Getting to the airport was easy. Elevator to sidewalk. Sidewalk to subway. Subway to airplane. It was a dance and he knew all the steps through repetition. He waltzed through his preferred security checkpoint and made it to the assigned gate in record time.
He preferred a window seat if it was a short flight, like today, . . .
As he crossed the tracks on Canal he could faintly make out the gruff voice of a trombone from deep within the Quarter. He glanced down at his wrist out of habit and laughed because he had intentionally left his watch at the hotel. No matter. Crossing this historic street was as close to stepping back in time as one can get. The . . .
He looked over the bottles behind the bar. They had multiplied since he stocked them last, but that was a long time ago. He was a patron now and the last drink of the night was always tricky. Through experience, he had learned what worked for him and what did not. As much as he enjoyed a whiskey before bed it never helped him come . . .
The old gas lamps reflected off the shiny brick streets due to the on and off rain. It always rained around this time of the year down here he thought. His leather soles echoed down the narrow streets in rhythmic staccato slaps. He had undertaken the futile task of tracking down the umbrella he started the night with but currently . . .