The Pocket

I’m at the Mews, grabbing a Sam Adams, and I realize my left back pocket is sewn shut. They’re new pants. Slacks really.  Black. From Pac Sun. But they’re sewn in a way that you can rip it open with your fingers, if you’re forceful enough.

I take my index finger, and my middle finger, and rip it apart. And for some reason…it feels really good.

Like I accomplished something great in my day.

And then another band sets up. And I pour two Jack and Cokes.

I’ll always have the pocket.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.


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