Drake, man of la mimico

December 23, 2010

We used to go to this working class pub after hockey. Sweating. Quaffing down beers. Arguing about how great I was that night. There used to be this guy. We’ll call him Drake. About 50. He’d walk in, dressed in a suit, his hair slicked back. A real Casanova. And he’d buy a beer. Lean against the bar. Checking out the talent. There were only a few women in the place. One of them was a waitress and cleaned up afterwards. A couple other women were in the place. Sitting with a table of guys. Smoking a cigarette. And laughing too loud. They were like synchonized cougars. Drake would glance their way. Perhaps they were beneath him. He never paid much attention to them. Always seemed to waiting for that special ‘someone’.  Drake would always leave alone. He was in his own dream. Like the rest of us in the bar. Except he smelled better. Probably.

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