The Father, The Son and The Holy Bartender

I miss the bar from home the most.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an alcoholic. It isn't the getting drunk part of the bar that I miss. No, I miss the green carpet, the lines of clean, clear glasses, the shiny bottles with colorful labels, the mirror behind the bartender I can see everyone in, the hammered copper bar top counter and the tall stools that allow me to swing my feet aimlessly while sipping whatever concoction ordered. I miss the order, the familiarity and the indifference... It reminds me of church, without all the pomp and circumstance of getting up early for mass.

Bar nuts seem like communion wafers; I don't want more than one and they both taste awful. The bartender, of course, acts as priest filling my tiny shot glasses with absolution. The cocktail waitress, positioned with head bowed studying her order intently, acts as an acolyte between brass bars. It lacks the image of our saviour crucified, but there are more than enough people acting the martyr in the crowd to make up for that noticeable difference.