Nothing Gold Can Stay
F-train’s depressing, will somebody pleeeeeaaaasssseeee marry him already?
Ten years of these kinds of insults force people to become great friends. Maybe it’s just that nobody else can stand to be around us, but we are the last stalwarts of the ale house. Other people make guest appearances from time to time, but Al and I are the only regulars, putting up with the ever-rotating cast of waitresses, the awful music, the televisions that sap your attention at every turn, and the patrons they attract. Many weeks, Al and I are the only ones at the table, and lately we’ve been ejecting the dinner portion of the evening, choosing instead to dine somewhere that isn’t the ale house. At some point soon, one of us is going to show up, have a few beers by himself, and realize the other one isn’t coming. After an exclaimed “son of a bitch!”, he’ll toast the ale house, finish his last beer, and an institution will pass into memory.