Waving Not Drowning

On a hot, humid, late spring evening close to sundown, the moon hangs heavy in the east three quarters full surrounded by a shadowy fog, filtered in the slowly darkening indigo sky. A bell sounds, ching~ching. A cyclist rolls by while three adults surround a mid size sedan, doors ajar, one packing a sleeping toddler into the backseat as the trio plays out a languid, elaborate goodbye after an enjoyable evening of barbeque and home made beer. Ivan's latest obsession is local IPA's. The small converted basement in the war era bungalow has become a makeshift brewery, hoppy and yeasty, overflowing with bottles and funnels, numerous batches of experimental blends and a graveyard of guitars in various states of function. Ivan's not much of a drinker. He considers himself more of a chemist, a creative scientist in the world of brewmastery. From 9 to 5 Monday through Friday Ivan works the service desk in a local chain retailer of musical instruments. He repairs guitars and other st...

Jesus, that was beautiful. The way you moved across the floor there and just kinda swung around the corner of that table. Fabulous, woman. Carrying that tray with 10 sleeves of beer- now bring some of that my way, would ya? Ya, that's right, I'll have another. Or four! Dwayne's cackle quickly gave way to a lung shattering cough, with a low rattle to rival his Fat Boy permanently parked in the front stall. Cherry is now leaning against the bar rail, rolling her eyes, snapping her nicotine gum, sighing heavily. Every night it's the same thing: Dwayne and his mouth. Running like a leaky tap, one tired, creaky pick up line after another. If she wasn't so desperate for cash, Cherry'd be long gone. Back on the road, heading south, all the way down to New Orleans. It's been too long; she wasn't getting any younger. Hard to make ends meet in a two bit tavern with desperate regulars that feel entitled to slap and tickle without the accompanying tip. Cherry can ha...