The bartender came to the middle of nowhere because he’d tired of cities. He’d made his money elsewhere, and now was content to pour rye into tumblers and open bottles of beer for patrons who leaned heavily on the bar, weighed down by the emptiness outside.
He mapped the landscape: One bar for the liberals, one where the washed-up showgirls come out of retirement late at night after a few too many, and his place, where people keep to themselves.
There’s no bullshit here, he said. People come in, drink, lie to each other and leave.
