He sipped at the shot glass of whiskey and turned a little to glance over his shoulder at the rest of the bar. He didn't make it too obvious - people in the bar didn't like being watched too much, especially if it was some guy picking up a prostitute behind his wife's back.

It was pretty normal in the bar, about ten or so people, plus him and the bartender. The average crowd - mostly neighborhood guys here and there, a young couple at the bar, and a couple of punks joking and laughing loudly. Pretty typical Thursday night. You couldn't tell it was night, though. There was no way to tell by looking around. The bar had no windows - you couldn't just look outside. It didn't have clocks, either. Just like a Las Vegas casino, there were no reminders of time. Nothing to remind you that you had to leave, that you had to go home, that you had to get up and go back out into the world. Just like a casino, they want you to stay there and spend money. They have free drinks at some casinos - they want you to get drunk and loose with your money, and so you don't know that it's time to go back to the hotel room because it's three in the morning. They give you drinks so you spend money, but in a bar, you spend money to get drinks. Bars want to keep you there, oblivious to the fact that you've been there five hours and run up a fifty-dollar tab.

All the lights in the bar were artificial: the various neon signs advertising beer, the dim lights above the bar, shining down on the multitudes of glass bottles, the recessed lights in the ceiling, casting dark puddles of light on the tables, and the flickering color of the perpetually muted television above the bar, forever tuned to the local syndicated-TV-show-and-old-movie channel - no luxury of cable here. The bar itself wasn't fancy. Just the neighborhood bar in a sea of drab apartments and grim one-night hotels. Nothing exciting outside. A flat brown exterior with only a simple neon sign proclaiming that it was a BAR - OPEN 5PM-1AM. Nothing exciting inside, either. About ten polished wooden tables covered with water stains and cigarette burns. Bad chairs that were, oddly enough, comfortable in their own way. Bare wood floor, scuffed and stained, although you couldn't tell in the light. The bar itself was simple. It was opposite the door, facing the back wall, and spanned about twenty or twenty-five feet, almost the width of the room, save for the hallway to the bathroom. It was polished walnut - or something that looked like it. A row of swiveling red naugha-hide bar stools sat in front of the bar. Just like the chairs, the stools looked uncomfortable, but weren't. The walls of the bar were barely decorated with dusty posters of local sports teams and seductive, bikini-clad and smiling women, as they proudly showed off a beer company's logo.

Turning back towards the bar, he finished off the shot glass of whiskey. He pushed it forward, waiting for the bartender to finish mixing a drink for the young couple.

He massaged his temples. He'd once had a girlfriend, years ago. They were attracted to each other tentatively, unsure about why they were seeing each other. After a few months, they were quite involved, but it started to fall apart. He left her - they never expected to stay together, so they didn't really let it affect them. He hadn't really had any relationships since then. The breakup didn't really change him for the worst - it was just that he hadn't really wanted a relationship since then. Some people, when he talked to them about his girlfriend, probably thought that his relationship was the reason he started drinking. People wanted to believe that, for some odd reason. Usually it was people who also drank that thought he had a bad experience that made him drink. Drinkers wanted to believe that there was a reason that people started to drink, other than just drinking for the hell of it. It was an excuse they fabricated for others that had their problem - after all, if someone else had a "legitimate" excuse for the same problem, so should they. People with addictions have odd ways of rationalizing things.

There wasn't much of a reason for him being an alcoholic.. He just was. When he moved into the neighborhood, he'd first gone to bars to be friendly, to socialize, and to relax after work. But gradually, he'd stopped going to bars to socialize, and started going just to drink. After a while, he realized that he was an alcoholic. He'd denied that he was an alcoholic in the beginning, but he had accepted the fact quickly. Sometimes he thought about quitting, but it seemed pointless to him. It didn't bother him as much as it should have, which did bother him. He just accepted it and kept going to the bar.

He glanced at his watch - 9:42 32 stared back up at him. He'd have to go home soon: ten o'clock was the time he set to leave the bar, especially when he was working the next day. He had to be at work every day at ten; he actually considered his job to be one of the few good things in his life. He was one of two assistant midday managers at a supermarket, an independent one not far from his neighborhood. The hours were good: ten to six every weekday. And since it was only about ten minutes away on a city bus, he could get a decent night's rest and plenty of coffee in the morning. The pay wasn't too bad, he got a discount for groceries at his job, and the rent on his apartment was fair, so he was alright. The job itself wasn't that bad - most of his duties were to check the stock, help out with coordinating shipments, and various other activities. Occasionally he'd have to deal with customers who wanted to see the manager while she was busy. Little old ladies nagging to see milk with a fresher date. Someone who didn't have enough money to pay for a cart full of groceries. A kid who shoplifted some batteries on a dare. But all-in-all, he was grateful for it. Grateful to whom, he did not know. All he did know was that it was a decent job, and he did not want to lose it. He made a point of never going to work drunk or too hung-over.

It was almost time for him to go home. He had a kind of schedule that he followed every weekday: Wake up at nine. Go to work at nine forty-five. Leave at six. Go to the bar at about seven. Stay until ten. Go home.

Home. Home was an apartment building a block away; it was just like any other in the area - bad colors, wrought iron, and cement. Big eyed kids playing in the courtyard or with legs dangling through the railings as they watched people go by. His small apartment sat on the second of three floors, a one bedroom and bath. It came with ugly brown carpet and rough plaid brown curtains. A kitchen with a stove, sink, and refrigerator, cupboards and drawers with a patchwork collection of random, unmatching sets of dishes and utensils. Thrift-store plates, glasses, forks, spoons, and knives; plastic, glass, ceramic, metal, wood. A dusty sofa and chair in the living room, accompanied by an ancient color TV housed in cheesy wood and brass. Dining table. Chairs. He didn't know why he had four chairs for his dining table - he rarely had any company. A small bathroom with toilet, sink, and bathtub and shower. His bedroom was dim and cramped. It had one window that filtered light in through some trees, and a closet reeking of mothballs and cedar. Ugly wooden paneling on one wall, and the same brown carpeting in the living room. His one comfort was a soft twin bed, thick with covers and pillows. It was his refuge at home, where he went when wracked with a headache or exhaustion. It was limited, but it was his home.

Almost ten. He emptied the glass and set it upside down on the bar, pushing it away. Standing up, he pulled out his wallet and withdrew a few bills and change. He coughed and sniffed, fighting down the strength of the liquor. The bartender saw this and silently picked up the money and rung it up. He rubbed his eyes gently and started for the door, shrugging on the jacket that had been tied around his waist. He nodded at a few people he knew in the bar on his way to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob, and then withdrew it. He looked back at the bar and looked to the bartender.

"Hey, see you later, Gord," said the bartender, wiping down the bar.

"Yeah," he smiled, "I'll see you tomorrow, Julius."

It was his home away from home. He walked out into the cool night air.