A vintage ’63 BMW motorcycle stands by the curb that belongs to Jarod, one of the bartenders. It’s pristine condition shows his love and obsession for the classic. Except on Mondays, the bike’s here everyday. One unfamiliar with Love’s Lounge would think the bike was the dive’s public artpiece, or as Leonard would say, pubic artpiece.
i was pissed. i wanted to fuck, and know i had my chance with her. but leonard, that old piece of shit, ruined my erection after generously sharing that his foreskin hung two inches over his german helmet. not only were we witnesses to his perverted tales–
It’s not even 4pm and Leonard’s drunk. The carouser strikes again. The sun snoops through a propped-open door, revealing how awful the empty dive looks. Who was the artist? Only a mind of vulgarity and fury can decor an establishment with such grim latexes and random sketches resembling 80’s album covers of Slayer and Sepultura.
Work called two hours earlier, asking if I’d come in. Of course I will, I need the money.