His voice was a crow's rasp. His face was already soured, and moreso as he frowned. His beard was stiff, white and marked with beer dribble already. He looked like a Santa more Satan than Santa.
"I asked, what's your story. Everyone has a story."
"Naw, most people don't. I don't. A story has to mean something, it has to entertain. I don't entertain anyone, and I don't mean nothing."
He held his beer glass tightly, so it wouldn't get away as he drained it. He didn't bother to wipe his chin.
"Mister, I'll tell you, I'll tell you what. A story, should have a real beginning and a real end. My life. No such thing, amigo. I trudge on. Day, after day, after day, after stupid bleeding God slapped day. I work, I eat, I drink, shit, and sleep. Hopefully in that order. And if I get a little joy for some reason, it lasts about a minute then it is back to the grind. That ain't a story Mister, it's a miserly misery doled out to the good and to SOBs like me alike."
"Sounds, grim. You feel like that, why bother getting up in the morning?"
"Because Mister, it's what you do. Anything else is quiting and I don't quit. I'll don't like no regular work, but I don't quit. Never did. I'll be here till judgement day, and I'll tell the good lord to back off so I can do I high dive into the lake of fire. That's what I'll say."
He began mumbling a little to himself as the bartender came in from the back.
"Did you say something?" He asked.
I look at the old man still drinking and drinking from a glass that never emptied. A man who when the light was strong you can see through him. I turn to the bartender and just smile.
"Just thinking out loud. Say.. what's your story?"