THE VET’S BEACH BAR by John A Clayton

“Let’s get lunch at the Vet’s Beach Bar”
“Hernando? That’s pretty far.”
“Man, there’s an alligator in the canal at the back.
Besides we can go by Areipka commin back.”

“Where’s this Vet’s Beach Bar at? On this side of town?”
“A sign? Yeah, At least they did til Jones knocked it down. “
The the screen door is torn. It has a weak spring.
It’s an ambience thing.

The heat hits you in the face when you go through the door.
This place is homey, not like a store.
No air, just some old ceiling fans.
Richie walks in and gives the room a scan.

All the smells known by bar flies
that make them feel right at home. Everyone knows they’ll hear lies.
Cigarette smoke, hot grease, stale beer, sweat, and cooked onions.
I know those smells. Didn’t pass inspection but the food will be good.
I can tell. It’s the atmosphere, not what they sell.

“Two Busches, Shirley J.”
“Ok, but they aint cold. Put the Bud Light in yesterday.
It’s a quarter more. But it’s ice cold for sure.”
“Hey, man. Can you spot me 10?
Just til my check comes in. “

“Shirley J, I’ll have one of them Cuban pork subs”
“Yeah, with the fried onions and toasted bread.
Eight fifty? Wow!
Hey, man. I’m gonna need 15, not just 10.”
“Damn, Richie. Lunch with you always costs me double.
Oh well, you’re good company. I guess it’s worth the trouble.”

John Clayton lives in rural Maries County, Missouri with his wife, Dawn, on 56 acres where, with the exception of invasive spices and the garden, nature is left to her own devices. John has been published in Gasconade Review and online in Wine Drunk Sidewalk: Ship Wrecked in Trumpland.