My Father’s Bar DYLAN GALASSINI
Admittedly, it was my first night sober in a week, and while I laid in bed, blindly. All I could think of was the bar cart back home, that my dad kept neatly stocked. I remember the lock that was never locked. It would have been pointless anyways to have it locked. Even if it were locked, the stainless-steel poles, that stretched from the floor to my chest, and assembled the cart, were too far apart. A bottle could easily be fit between. So, I never opened the cart. I didn’t need to. On the left-hand side, was the assorted liquor. My task was to slide the liquor between the assembled rods. I started with the Malibu rum. That my dad, only, kept around for Mr. X’s famous rum punch. Then I’d return downstairs, cocky, presenting the booty like I was Captain Jack Sparrow. We would drink the tropical flavor as the Captain should. Straight. Chased with whatever. In our movie, my name would be Captain Dean Sperro, That’s what I’d say to you. (some stupid joke or dego charm) And Dean Sperro trades in his slops for a gold chain. Trade in pirate’s booty for real ass. I’d keep the drunk scallywag step Depp swaggered, though. For it was the same subtle rhythm I walked most of the time. Especially when concealing the then, almost, finished bottle of booze back in my father’s bar. Sorry, I digress. Back to the bar. So, it had the poles; the rods, this silver structure. But what really added the depth and subtle beauty of it all, were slabs of green sea glass. Opaque and handsome. Forged in the sea. That’s what the liquor stood tall on. Until, of course, 46 | Montage
