All I could offer were my collection of drunkards and a few IOU’s. Some of my customers were one-timers, folks who were passing through and were mostly single-glass-of-beer travelers. Once they wised up and figured out where they were, they dropped their two-bits on the counter and rushed off. I was selling my drinks as cheap as I could just so I could have some custom. In a dead town, no one has much cash-in-hand for the unnecessaries like beer and shots of Jackie Daniel. I was getting by, but that wasn’t much use to the CS&L. Sometimes you have to swallow whatever pride that’s left and take it on the chin.
I remember the day. It was a hot and thirsty September afternoon, a Thursday, and the temperature hit past 100 for the ninth day in a row. The wind felt like sandpaper against my face, and my shoe leather was ready to melt on the pavement. I had to close the joint down, and that wasn’t helping my temper none. Shut down for an hour or more meant fewer dollars in my pocket. I was broker than Herbert Hoover.
Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome. Available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0
Free downloadable Kindle app also available.