SCENE B

The bar is gloomy, there are a handful of people sitting at tables. Most of them are alone with their beers or double shots of bourbon. The bartender is disinterested, she wears a black sweater that has nervous holes in the sleeves, from her fingers picking at lint. Her eyeliner and mascara are smudged haphazardly, and her red lipstick bleeds into the skin around her mouth. She lights a cigarette and looks around the room.
There's a couple staring at each other, the bartender is sure that they're about to break-up. The girlfriend coughs. The girlfriend is looking away from the man across from her. He reaches for her hand, between their two drinks. He barely touches her, and she pulls her whole arm away and puts it safely into her lap, out of his reach. The man looks away at a neon sign advertising Budweiser, finishes the rest of his drink and the bartender puts out her cigarette.
It's a Monday night, and this is as full as the bar is going to get. The bartender expects everyone to get thoroughly drunk and play rock ballads and old Patsy Cline on the Jukebox. She expects no tips tonight, all of the crumpled dollar bills she would usually get will go towards more alcohol and sad music to make it easier for her patrons to cry into their beer.
There's a man that's about her father's age sitting with a pint of Guinness in a corner, reading in the dimness. He hasn't shaved for days- his grey stubble spreads over his chin and jaws up into his cheeks. He glances up from his book; before she can look away, he's made eye-contact with her. She busies herself. Cleaning glasses, the counter, anything so she won't have to hear his story. The old man closes his book and carries his beer to the bar. He sits on the stool nearest the window, reaches for a napkin and cleans off his glasses.
When the old man is sure of their cleanliness, he hooks the glasses behind both ears. He takes a slow sip from his beer. He watches the head slide slowly down the glass, creating elephant and monster shapes. When he is content with what he sees in the foam, he looks up and waits patiently for the bartender. She comes over to him.
"What can I get you pops?" she asks, as curtly as she can.
"What's your story, lady?" the old man replies.
"My story? You want to know my story?" The bartender stops and laughs. A full, deep belly laugh.
"Yeah, lady, I wanna know your story," says the old man.
"I don't have a story yet, pops. I'm here working on my story. This here, is my story. Ya know? I don't get a story yet pops." She lights a cigarette, and starts to walk away.
"Hey, lady... Everyone's got a story..." The old man says as he watches her walk away.
"You really want to know? Fine. Here's my story: I grew up in this shithole city; I went to school, high school anyway; I didn't get the grades for college. I work at this shithole bar that only alcoholics come to. I live in a shitty apartment, with shitty neighbors. And I don't care. I'm just biding my time until I can get the fuck out of here. And my name's not 'lady,' it's Dana."
"Well, nice to meet you Dana. I hope your story gets better," the old man says before he finishes his beer.