Ramada Inn Tiki Bar (a poem)

(I wrote this a few years ago when I was staying at a shit hotel near Miami for work)

I ordered a Heineken and immediately I’m an alien.
“No Bud Light? No Miller Light?” They know I’m an outsider.

There are four men at the bar and me the fifth. Everyone smoking except for me. One guy is a New Yorker who recently moved here. Another guy is ex Navy, or so he says. Military guys always make sure everyone around them knows they were in the service.

Then two guys who could be gay, not sure, but they have that red-faced look that only seasoned alcoholics have and they are smiling weirdly at each other after each sip.

The bartender is tall, crack skinny with purple black, long hair and looks like she just came off of a meth binge. Her face is stained with pitted, shaded spots and she has a scar on her neck that probably came from a “dream” of bugs trying to scurry into her brain via her trachea.

The stories start rolling of their tongues like an AA meeting.

“Hello, I’m your bartendress Sylvia. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve been eating cat food for three days. I’ll suck you off for a burger, did you want another beer?”

“Hello my name is Ted, I’m from New York and my accent is fucking annoying and I’m wearing a Yankees shirt and I’m going to suck on this Marlboro Light like it’s a spearmint cock.”

“Hello my name is Sarge and I was in the Navy. I fucked a bunch of slant eyed bitches and you should thank me for your freedom, another Busch Lite please.”

“Hi, it’s me. I’m not pretentious, but holy fuck this is ridiculous. Thank god Karaoke starts at 8.”

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