My adventure at the Basement Pub feels like an explanation for why this series has been so difficult.
I am drinking a PBR, alone. I asked a guy at the bar and this was his choice. There was no room next to him so I sat by myself nearby, writing, which is good, drinking a terrible beer, which is not good.
This whole experience would be so different if I was either talking to someone or drinking a beer I liked, or was new to me. Instead I am grinding my own gears, alone, with a beer I hate. When this theme goes right, it’s awesome. When it doesn’t, I feel pathetic.
That aside, I like the Basement Pub. It’s too dark, so if you come here with friends, you pretty much have to socialize. It’s an old smoker’s place, so half the patrons are outside at the tables, visiting with each other over deathsticks. If you come here alone, you can expect to stay here alone, getting a chance to just chill out, relax, be with your thoughts.
The music is hit and miss, some Talking Heads, some Grateful Dead and I’ll let the reader decide which I’d rather not listen to. The patrons are clustered, hanging out and chatting. Even the one who’s separated herself playfully bops someone on the head with a newspaper as she walks past him, asking if he’d like to join her for a cig. Someone has left their laptop on the rail, smoking outside and unafraid of what may happen to it.
I like that and I miss being a part of that kind of scene.