I was sitting there drinking at noon, because that's when the bar opened, when this real hippy-looking couple sat down next to me, a couple stools away. They ordered beers and started writing postcards, like they were backpackers in Europe, kids just out of college, except they weren't.
We eventually start talking – I forget how, probably, I asked some nosy question or something – and eventually I asked what they were writing on the postcards.
Just things they'd seen, they said. It turned out, they were brother and sister and their mom had just died and the two of them were going cross-country. It sounded like a sweet story, but the two were all bitter and twisted. The mom's will was all fucked, they said, and the two of them basically got nothing.
The Bar at Purgatory
You push through the doors and for a moment are standing in darkness. You feel the wind from the doors as they swing closed behind you, and your eyes adjust. Shapes emerge. In front of you is a dimly lit bar, beautiful wood that curves through the room, with torn, red plastic stools and a short row of taps.
You sit and nod to the bartender and he slides across a beer and a shot. You didn't order, but it's what you would have. Have you been here before?
The jukebox is just background noise, not a song only a presence, and no television just that midday hum common to dives where the patrons have nowhere to be and nothing to say.
“Thanks,” you say, and the bartender nods back. The napkins and coasters all say “God's Bar,” and so you ask the question.
“Are you God?”