Slumming Before Sodo by Leah Mueller

The Red Front Tavern sat a block 

from the Amtrak station for several decades, 

until it fell to the wrecking ball

during the new Seattle gold rush.

Nick and I frequented a bar named the Blue Moon, 

a haven for alcoholics who fancied themselves rebels. 

We huddled in wooden booths and discussed left-wing politics,

while pouring cheap beer from endless pitchers.

The bar’s matchbook said, “Live Conversation.”

One night, Nick asked if I’d ever gone to the Red Front,

Seattle’s most infamous establishment.

I’d passed by many times, but never ventured inside.

We drove there at once, parked around the corner.

A man perched on the edge of a barstool, 

staring at the wall as he lowered pig intestines 

towards his face. The quivering blobs of gray flesh

dangled from his fingers, like toy prizes

suspended at the end of a miniature crane.

He took his time, savoring the sight of each morsel,

until they finally disappeared into his cavernous mouth.

A bulldog lay in the center of the room,

passed out cold in a puddle of beer and floor sweepings.

Hank Williams played on the ancient jukebox. 

The air reeked of vomit and disinfectant. 

Nick and I drank one beer, then another.

We surveyed the wreckage and laughed.

A uniformed man entered the building.

He stood beside the door and stared at the crowd 

with a bored expression.  The bartender hollered,

“Hey! Detox van is here! Anybody wanna go to detox?’

The bar fell silent for a moment,

then several men detached themselves 

from their stools and shambled towards the door.

Two guys dragged another fellow from his table.

He had fallen asleep hours beforehand

with his head beside an empty pint glass.

The driver had to tie him to a stretcher.

It took three men to carry the guy outside.

“Wow,” Nick laughed. “That was great. 

Can you imagine if a detox van stopped at the Blue Moon?”

I smirked, shook my head, but felt queasy inside, 

because the honest reply to Nick’s question 

was “yes”, and both of us knew it. 

“Another beer,” I told the bartender. 

He turned around, filled a pint glass 

and extended it in my direction.

2:00 was hours away, and my liver indestructible. 

It was a good thing I was still young

and could hold my liquor, at least

long enough for me to make it back home.

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of two chapbooks and four books. Her next book, "Misguided Behavior, Tales of Poor Life Choices" will be published by Czykmate Press in Autumn, 2019. Leah’s work appears or is forthcoming in Blunderbuss, The Spectacle, Outlook Springs, Mojave River Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, Barnhouse, and other publications. She was a featured poet at the 2015 New York Poetry Festival, and a runner-up in the 2012 Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest.