Respectable men don’t spend their mornings in dive bars, or so I’ve been told. Before noon, it’s only the hopeless and the aimless, men who’ve run out of reasons to pretend otherwise. Mick’s is packed with them. Old-timers slouched in cracked vinyl booths, bellies pushing against the limits of their poly-cotton blends. Faces slack. Eyes dim. Waiting out the clock with warm beer and cold memories.
