The Texture of Glass

Yeah, so he was flattered. He also didn’t want to think about it.

A pretty girl. Right enough age. Full wavy neat hair and nice features. She grinned as the driver, a guy about his age but not so much in shape, let off the brake with the change of light from red to green. The girl was his type, definitely, looks-wise, anyway. Not that his type had turned out well for him yet.

Which only meant he hadn’t found the right his type.

Maybe it was time for another beach jaunt. Beach girls were different than small city girls. Very small city girls.

Greenville, Pennsylvania was barely a city, technically a borough of only some six thousand people, and in recent years it had fallen into disrepair about as bad as he had himself. It was the kind of town where you often saw people stop at Sheetz for $5 worth of gas to get them through till payday. But more recently, it was coming back into its own. As he was. They both had a way to go, but a start toward a desired goal was at least a start.

His roommates wanted him to go to Sam’s later. James shuddered at the thought. He hadn’t been there in seven months. The place was dark, notoriously dark, purposely to hide the disrepair. The talk was it had been that way since the 70s and had touched on a few necessary repairs, but otherwise hadn’t changed. The stained glass window by now was so old or so dirty you could hardly tell it wasn’t just shades of dirt-gray. Only when the sun hit it just right did any of its colors show. No image, just colors, not even in a set pattern. Looked like someone had extra pieces and shoved them together however they fit. Some said it was painted glass with black lines to make it look like it could possibly be stained glass. With the ceiling so high and the window up by the ceiling, it was hard to tell.

The new owners had nearly taken it out to replace with a larger, more energy efficient window that would actually let in light, but too many old-timers complained, said it was part of the place. Some of them were still going to Sam’s as they did back in the 70s, which they called its heyday, only because Raucous, one of the biggest names in rock in the 70s and into the early 80s, somewhat got its start there, they said. James had his doubts the story was true; they probably had never been near the place. But a story was a story and you couldn’t tell old-timers anything.

They glorified the shanty of a bar. When the stage area had been on the other side of the room, they said, the lights would glow in on the performers before the sun went down like they were some kind of rock and roll angels. Yeah, James definitely didn’t buy that one. Rock and Roll Angels was an oxymoron to beat all the others, as far as he could see, especially any of them that might have played at Sam’s way back when. These days, there was no stage, only a place kept cleared of tables that was mainly used for some guy with a guitar playing for tips, as well as for open mic nights.

The open mic thought made James shudder again. He hadn’t missed hearing the warblers who should have been told long ago to sing only in their showers. Now and then one came through that wasn’t bad, but mainly he’d gone to Sam’s to take the edge off his night after whatever his current job was in between wandering. Pretty much every night. Although now and then they’d find somewhere new. Sam’s was known for cheap beer and often for ... well, cheap women who went for the cheap beer and the guys who were there drinking plenty of it.

Himself included.