You Can't Go Home Again

The OLD SKOOL....ahhh, nostalgia.

I borrowed mom's car and kicked it out today to some much-needed freedom. Where, oh where, did I go? Taco Mac.
This place used to be my drinking hole, and much worse. Why did I go there? It was part of my life, a major part. A huge area of my life where the line between good and bad blurred to a drunken haze. I hadn't been there in over a year.

Walking into the dimly lit place, I flashed so many memories. A few semi-conscious drunks turned and recognized me. Not much had changed at all. I was bear-hugged, high-fived, and back-slapped too many times to count. The resounding opinion was that I was either dead or married, one in the same to this crew of slurpers. I bought a beer, lit a smoke, and absorbed the atmosphere of the hole. So many days, both wasted and entertained, flooded back to me across the wooden bar under my slouchful elbows.

The usuals bought the rest of the drinks. I shook so many hands that I felt like I was at a funeral, or maybe a wake. I wandered giddy to the bathroom, avoiding the routine cluster of the sniffers. I heard someone shout "suck MEEEEEE!" from the bar and thought of my life in hindsight.

You know drunks--no one leaves until someone pukes. I cajoled, pointed out various random sights of entertainment (mainly the waitress' butts), and shimmied out of there. Being the day before T'giving, I took it easy on the way home.

Freedom. To be away from there was freedom. To not need that place any more, or really even miss anyone, well that's freedom. I drove home and helped mom set up the Christmas tree. And I felt wiser, and safer. Thanks for the memories.