That was a 4.7 bar

“Was going to ask if you’d want to get a drink in your neighborhood after.

“I’ll be done at 3. No is always okay.

“Just thought I’d ask since I’m out here.”

It was my best friend, Tracy, texting me. I did want to hang out with her. Been kinda lonely ’round here lately. But…

I replied, “I would like to get a drink but I don’t know where.”

Her response came back almost immediately. “Is the bar across the street not good?”

Dad has been walking to the bar across the street pretty much daily while he’s been here. I’ve been in there exactly twice when I first moved in to this neighborhood and, no offense to dad, it was not my cup of tea. Run down, open, no dark corner to hide in, noisy. I just sent back the emoji that’s described as “grimacing face” which I interpret to mean anxious avoidance.

I looked up “bars near me” on Google. The one across the street had a 3.5 star rating, which seemed high compared to the last time I’d been in there, which to be fair was 4-5 years ago. I poked around and found one between where I lived and Tracy’s appointment and found one that was rated 4.7 stars, and sent her the link. We agreed to meet there after 3.

Part of my depression kept telling me it did not want to leave the house. I mostly ignored that part of me. I wanted to see my bestie.

We both pulled in to the parking lot at the same time, her from one side, me from the other. We hugged and went inside. It did not seem too bad; had a nice covered area, despite each table having a coffee can half-filled with cigarette butts. Inside was clean, about half-full of patrons. Music a bit loud for conversation — or maybe I’m getting old. We got drinks; me a black ale, her the prickly pear cider they had on tap, she ordered a BLT, we went outside.

It was good to see her. I felt a little of the stress and despair leave my body. We caught each other up on our individual drama, commiserated with each other, talked a little bit about politics. She complained about work, I complained about looking for work. It was good. We’ve known each other for decades. The familiarity is a comfort.

We were on our second round of drinks, Tracy’s BLT half gone, when she went inside to get a to-go box for the fries and half-sandwich. While she was gone, the bartender, a thin tough-looking woman my age or older, came out to talk to one of the other patrons on the patio. I didn’t pay much mind; she said something about the man’s wife that I didn’t register, turned to walk back inside, and the guy yelled back at her, angry and defensive, defending his wife about… something. The bartender turned on her heel and came back outside, leaning over him, not backing down, finger wagging in his face.

A crowd quickly formed. Tracy and I took long sips of our drinks, gave each other significant looks.

I held up my beer. “Think I can get a to-go cup for this?” She laughed.

We weren’t able to finish our drinks. It was clear we both wanted to escape before things escalated. As we walked out to the parking lot together, Tracy turned to me.

“I’m sorry you live in the ghetto, dude.”

Wonder if the 3.5 bar would have been better? At least they would have known my dad.