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St. Andrews

This Valentine's Day after midnight I found myself the sole patron in St. Andrew's, a bar in Omaha, Nebraska.

It had an NBA Jam arcade machine with the big head cheat turned on. I told the bartender I was the best NBA Jam player I'd ever met. I told him there was a cheat for NBA Jam that took you to a 3D tank game.

We traded stories about Philadelphia. I told him about an illegal after hours bar run by cops out of a VFW. He had been there with a Miss Nebraska that was an ex of his. We discussed going to dive bars with our smoking hot girlfriends of yore and how the patrons would circle like vultures.

I told him I thought I was better at being poor than I am at being loaded. I said I could afford fancy beers and whiskeys, but I disliked snobbery as it pertains to getting fucked up. I spoke of betting exorbitant amounts of money. I tipped generously.

We talked about his 11-mile commute, and I claimed it would be bikeable for me. Also that I had biked to the bar, even though I did not live in Omaha and knew nary a soul in Nebraska. He asked why I was in Omaha and I told him I was running out of cities within driving distance to pointlessly visit, and that I had no reason beyond that.

I wonder if he believed any of it. I wonder if I would have.

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