At Charlie’s, Friday is the most religious day of the week.The spirits moves quickly, draining from bottles into the patrons that file inside to escape. Like a church, temple or tabernacle, some sacred institution pushing a denominational doctrine of your choosing.
But here demons drown in a pool of alcohol, suffocating the disquiet living if it’s host. The only water found is in the restroom where the drunken heave and hardly deem it holy.
And the barkeep becomes an apostle priest, ordaining rum, gin, bourbon, whiskey, tequila and vodka to minister. Port wine for women hustling white collar dreams from blue collar men. And half conscious men introducing themselves to women holding the full deck.
The barkeep, fresh out of scrolls and stone tablets, scribbles our running tabs on toilet paper. Detailing the patrons indulgences and confessions. Tallying up shots and doubles accordingly to cardinal sins.
It’s no secret, the habits of escape. The holy roller and the drinking Saints congregate for vices to dull the senses, make the suffering less painful. But anything that sits untouched long enough ferments: relationships, belief, even love.
The trick is to keep moving, growing, managing the levels of toxicity.