Ladies shot free on Wednesdays. Still do. Amy said it wouldn’t be that bad. Since I knew no one in this town, I really had nothing to lose but $1 for each draft beer I could drink.
I’d played pool before underage where no one cared or carded. I was good at watching and guessing the angles. I was never good at math, which was the only excuse I needed when I missed a ball. Alcohol had more to do with it, though.
Amy and I passed cigarettes back and forth between shots and drank red bull and vodkas and hands covered in blue chalk. We punched numbers of country songs into the juke box and sang obnoxiously loud—the kind of thing you can’t do at a bar in the city without getting yelled at or kicked out.
You could buy coke and other things from Tina according to the bathroom stall. I have a feeling her prices would be slightly higher than the $1/free signs that got me through the door.
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