OldTroubador's blog post - The Jukebox Playing My Favorite Songs

It’s late at night. It’s been raining all day and the streets are wet. It’s the kind of darkness that swallows up the light from your headlights. The streetlights here, well only about half of them are lit. The rest have been shot out with BB guns – target practice for misspent youth. You’re just driving around, killing time, can’t sleep, nowhere to go.
It’s an old town, used to be an industrial town. But now it’s a dying town. Business has left. So have a lot of the people. You drive across the railroad tracks into the old warehouse/factory district. There’s nothing here except old brick buildings, empty and forlorn. Forgotten, like this dirty old town. If you came down here during the day, you would see that almost all the windows have been broken by thrown stones – more bored youth at work. Even the graffiti here is drab. The taggers quit doing their thing years ago – no one was around to read what they wrote. Trash still swirls in the breeze down here in the brick canyon.
You drive past blocks and blocks of abandoned buildings, shuttered stores, vacant lots. This town is as lost as you feel. Your tires bump over railroad tracks set in the street, rattle over cobblestone sections of road. A cat, or maybe it was a rat, runs across the street. During the day, pigeons fly in and out of the broken windows. Dead cars are parked along the curb, some of them might be homes for other lost souls.
A small patch of light on the next block catches your eye and you head that way. On the corner is an old neon sign that says J E’S TAV RN. There is a light coming from the window. Out front, a Dodge Diplomat, more rust than blue, sits half on the sidewalk. Crumpled fender, missing headlight, a trash bag for a window on the passenger side. Yeah, it belongs here. You park your car and walk to the door; it opens when you push on it. The interior is dark; not as dark as outside, but a dismal, depressing kind of darkness. Yeah, this is the place – it is the perfect match for your soul tonight.
As your eyes adjust, you can pick out the details. A few tables are scattered around, the chairs are orphans from somewhere else. A couple of people are sitting there; they raise their heads from staring at their drinks and watch you walk to the bar. You skirt a pool table that saw its best days when Truman was president, it seems. The outer edge is flecked with cigarette burns and decorated with the rings from a thousand beer bottles. The green felt is faded and nearly worn through to the slate where the balls were racked. And something stains the felt that looks suspiciously like dried blood.
Walking up to the bar, you sit on one of the old vinyl stools. The bar is cheap Formica, cracked and worn, large chunks missing. A couple of patrons sit at the bar also. One has a dozen or so long necks, obviously empty, sitting in front of him as he takes a pull from yet another. Just past him sits a man with a half empty shot glass and a worn out whiskey bottle in front of him. Each has a pack of Marlboro’s sitting on the bar next to an old Zippo lighter. The ashtrays are almost full. At the end is an old man with a pack of Camel non-filters; one is between his second and third finger, burning almost to his skin. He just sits there as the smoke coils up from the fire, finally moving to stub it out and shake out another to light it. No one says a word; they all just stare at the rack of bottles behind the bar.
The barman heaves himself off the counter he was leaning against. Sallow skin, grey hair, skinny, almost sickly looking. His shirt is dirty, not from work but from not being washed lately. He tiredly shuffles over and asks with vacant eyes what you want. “A shot and a beer”. He pours them out and sets them down. You try to slide a bill across, but it sticks to the bar. You sit here, put your Winstons and lighter on the bar and take the same pose as everyone else.
Yeah, this is the place. The smell of cheap beer and cheaper whiskey. Even the barflies and hookers don’t come here anymore. That’s when you know there is no hope at all, when the whores won’t even bother coming in. The air is smoke filled; looking into the mirror behind the rows of bottles, you can barely see the people at the tables.
You order another set up. This time you take your change and find the jukebox. You flip through the selections and finally find a few that fit your mood. You slide a few quarters in the slot and push the buttons. You walk back to your barstool and wait for the music to play.