Vincent sat alone at the bar, his glass half empty, with broken dreams and stolen promises of greatness lifting into the air, falling hard to the ground, to collect around him in such a way, to seem, as if he was a leader of some great army, misery.
In the madness which was his brain, he thought, tried to dream, hopefully to be free, to be with that one girl, that one love.
“Wanna another?” the bartender said, taking his glass.
Vincent nodded as the bartender poured another.
Dust was playing on the jukebox, a slight breeze moved through the place, James Dean was sitting on the other side, drinking a scotch and dreaming.
Somewhere, a woman in a soft silk dress, danced merrily with her small child, she was beautiful, she was in love with another, and it killed Vincent inside.
He downed his drink, one swell swoop, never mind the rim, and eyed the clock.
4:45 pm.
“Another?”
Vincent nodded. He was beginning to like this bartender.
By 7 pm, he was singing songs from his grandfather wars.
“Over there!! Over there!!” his voice boomed out, filling the room, the men and ladies sang with him as if it was their generation’s songs.
There among the barflies, Vincent became the king of this world, and died there on the floor, among his people.
WANDERING WHERE I AM GOING! 