It's no fun when the devil kicks you out of your own house.
|THE NIGHT AT THE MOTEL BAR IN LAKE BLUFF
The devil had been in my house before, so I was used to it; that didn’t take away from the fact that I’d been served the worst Long Island I’d ever had.
Was it the environment? Being away from my “home barstools” back in Highwood was very off-putting. In the bartender’s defense, I didn’t order the drink the way I normally would have. I usually order it with easy ice. Or, maybe it was the guy across the bar who I knew from middle school—never one of my main tormentors, but still a beacon of gray light shining vaguely through the dense fog of a nasty era. I hated going back to Lake Bluff. Unfortunately, I had no choice, having been pushed out of the comfort of my own home by unseen forces.
It’s alright. I can only hope that the worst is over. Still, whether it was the atmosphere or the bartender, that Long Island last night sucked. Or maybe it’s just the devil in my house.