Reverend Dude

Jack's Place

I like neighborhood bars. They harken back to a time before corporate edifices attempted to make themselves neighborhood-looking by putting big stools around small tables. Jack’s Place was a long bar accompanied by wobbly stools and low booths with sticky tables. Last night’s popcorn was still on the floor where the broom hadn’t quite reached under the tables. The neon beer signs hadn’t been dusted enough to remove the film, which dimmed the struggling light. On the wall, the TV bled colors so the sportscasters on the screen looked like they had fuzzy orange halos around red faces.