Last Tuesday, I went to The Lampost for a drink. I felt edgy and angry. Things weren't working out, or I wasn't letting them work out. Frustrated with a touch of Cabin Fever, I headed out to be among people.
The bartender, smiled and served me my Heineken after carding me (nice!). She talked to the boys at the end of the bar. I eye-balled the two Heavy Metal Sports Arena looking chicks at the other end of the bar, and discussed the St. Louis Cardinals for 33 seconds with the Brunette who moved from the H.M.S.A. chicks to the barstool next to me: a better view of the ESPN Highlights. I give no shits about baseball.
I overheard the bartender telling the Brunette that James (the owner) wasn't in that night because his grandmother just died.
Last night, I dreamed I went into one of those mom 'n' pop soda and chips stores to buy lottery tickets. James was working the slurpy machine and sold me three Irish Lottery ticket and a big brown lottery ticket, all scratch offs. He said he doesn't usually sell that combination to people, but he'd make an exception for me. I stood at the counter and started scratching the big brown ticket first with a nickel.
And then I woke up. Did I win?