At Juniors.
They have bathrooms in back. Not that I ever knew, because I was never in that benighted dive-of-dives long enough to ever risk getting stabbed on my way to the powder room.(Not that that would ever happen.)
But this was daytime. Safe. There were Bacliffians bellying up, hoving to at every hoist of a Bud Light. One crustified dude had a crusty small dog. Thought it might be a Pomeranian.
Turned out to be a Chihuahua with long, scraggly hair.
She was quite content resting forepaws on the bar, as if ordering beers, as her human sponsor readily offered meat sticks looking strongly like Slim Jims, much to the delight of immediate patrons. And to me too.
And to the dog.
Tail wagged at increasing frequency while gobbling prefabricated, nitrite-loaded faux beef injected in tube-like form.
The bartenderess was a Big Woman. Tall. Powerful. Black hair. Broad, high cheekbones. Dark eyes.
Native American face. She was beautiful. Absolutely.
She gave me eyes, as I wasn't from these parts. I returned eyes. Politely in spades.
But I had to piss.
After asking where the water closet was, I was heartily directed to the back. As mentioned, didn't know there was a 'back.'
Out there: shitty bathroom was kaput. Some drunken dude twenty years my senior was attempting to fix the toilette. Cursing all the way.
I advanced into the trashy backyard of Juniors, hid myself best I could from prying eyes from Grand Avenue--and made a long stream.
Looked up in the sky. Aimed where I thought the Bay was (in honor).
It was a glorious Bacliff afternoon.
Then it was off to someplace else in the vicinity (Jackie's?), under the heavy but comforting, beer-soaked, fried fish and shrimp-filled air.