Good night for drinking.

Bad things can happen when feeling this intense. People get offended by your distant stare, and unnerved by your aloneness. Rivka and Rinah aren’t here ‘cause Egan’s Bar in Tuscaloosa is a smokey-ass joint, where the band sets up in front of the dart boards. Leave your jacket in the car or smell like this for a week.

Someone’s smoking cloves in here. The second Doors song in a row is playing; LA Woman. Dart game is winding down and the “sound system” has been drug out from the mop closet. “Don’t you love her as she’s walking out the door?”

Girls here look young and confused. The ash-faced hustler doles out compliments in search of his next beer. “You do believe me, don’t you?” Pool balls re-arranged in a triangle under Budweiser UFO lights.

Here’s Adam, the booker, in turqouise Converses. Place is open ‘till like six AM on Fridays. Ex-students who stayed in town. Professors. Ex-greeks that fell in love with the shadow world and it’s grimey inhabitants. Aging musicians. Be staying with a ghost hunter tonight.