Back With The Old Men

It was my first day back to Marlin’s Inn. 

Yeah, there was that whole bit about me being in prison for lighting the bar on fire to prevent my mother from stabbing Hank with a busted catsup bottle, but that was all behind me.

It was around noon on a Tuesday like that one song by that one California singer that dated that bicycle guy, and I entered ever so casually.

The guys were having this conversation:

Kilgore: Sedentary is how you live your life.

Hank: It’s sedimentary!  Like how rocks are collected bits of sediment!  If your ass don’t move off your couch, you become a stalactite!

H.L.: How do you guys spell “cemetery”?

Kilgore: A stalagmite would grow out of a couch.  G for ground.  C for ceiling.

Santiago: I spell cemetery as S-E-M-A-T-A-R-Y.  No, no.  It starts with a C.

Hank: What the fuck are you talking about, Fish?  C is for couch.

Kilgore: Stalactites and stalagmites!

H.L.: I think you’re right.

Hank: I know I’m right.

H.L.: No, Santiago’s right.

Kilgore: No, he’s not.  None of you are.

I stood behind them as the battle reached an apex consisting of silence.  Santiago turned to the speaker controls behind him.  Unbeknownst to me, the jukebox had been playing this:

Kilgore angled t0 face me from his side of the bar.  We dropped about ten bucks in there waiting for you.

Hank didn’t face me and grumbled.  Not counting the twenty yesterday.

I didn’t realize I missed the place as much as I did. 

And vice versa.