Whereas Paul's morning routine left very little fodder for even the most vivid of minds, once the bustling commotion of the Stock Exchange ceased - the bell vibrationless, the trampled tickets and secret insider notes dirty with eager sweat and fingerprints all swept away after failed hunches and dreams shattered and lives enriched, all in theory, all in misery, all in desirous greed - it was the shaking rattlesnake tail of Old York and the undying glow of cricket-caked sidewalk lamp posts marking his way to the bustle that Paul selfishly lived each and every day for. It was the sound of imminent social discourse. By God, who knew what they'd all be up to? Hovering, husking deep into highball crystal, Scotch and sodas jangling, wrestling in liquid reverie with sparkly ice cubes, all nestled within mighty, stern, muscular hands, the regulars at the lounge were good old fashioned brothers and sisters of industry. Paul felt like if the martyrs of his day life could see the real and true face of those whose lives were at stake with every shady investment gamble, every crooked deed unmasked in the stony glare and twinkle of the honest-to-goodness John Doe laborer, that they too could similarly unmask, break down their three-piece corporate shields and treat Paul like a son of Earth instead of a statistic of e-commerce. Paul'd walk the eight blocks to where the rows of creaking saloons sat dusty and with little love from modern architectural or interior decorating practices. The sting of stale smoke and hundreds of thousands of spilled beers masked the stench of sheer lack of proper hygiene, and Paul quietly gagged upon first entrance during each visit to the lounge. Besides, the graveyard shift cabbies who always occupied the lounge at this hour would soon be on their way, drunk and smelly, with at least an 85 percent chance of survival on the mean streets of the East, and a 50 percent chance of not being shackled up by the Bobbies of the West for drunken driving.The pungent stench of the cabbies followed them out the door into their lonely checkered metered tragedies and Paul ordered what every other "real man" ordered at the lounge: a shot of whiskey and a beer.
Paul would never drink his drink until approximately 6:30 PM when the first of the broken bodies from the taxing whirlwind of physical labor would come galloping into the bar, the might of their entrances slamming the handle of the door into an ancient groove on the wall behind it. Most of the boys coming in at this hour were young 20-somethings grabbing a few cold ones before they needed to rush home and face their varying degrees of advanced responsibility - pregnant girlfriends, young wives, etc. - but soon the whole bar would rock with a steady current of fresh faces, weathered faces, faces of angels and devils, faces that knew nothing of the world yet and faces that knew every dirty detail, faces of liars, cheats, saints and sexual deviants, all milling around the jukebox for a tune that might awaken them from their robotic stupor, or burrowing shiny quarters under the rail for dibs on the next billiard game, all looking at everyone and pretending not to, all feigning happiness in the one place you go when you're at least a little unhappy. Paul drank this scene up, along with his third shot and beer, in twisted glee. It was nearly 10 now, and he knew soon his muse would walk through that door, perpetuating that hidden groove behind the door once more, like she did every night - a phantom in a pheromone hall.(To be continued... The Cult of Julia)
